^ 


The  Dilettante   Series,   I. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

THE  MAN   :  THE   MASTER  :  THE  MARTYR 


By  OLIVER   LEIGH 

["Geoffrey  Quarles"] 


PORTRAITS 


CHICAGO 

THE  FRANK  M.   MORRIS  CO. 
1906 


Copyright,  1906, 
By  THE  FRANK   M.  MORRIS  CO. 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 
First  Edition,  May,  igob 


CONTENTS. 

FRONTISPIECE:     The  Transposable  Portrait. 

I.     Notes  on  the   Portraits  of  Poe 3 

Notes  on   the    Faces 8 

The  Wedding   Year  Portrait. 

II.     The  "Lavante"   Satire 18 

Some  of  the   Poets   satirized 25 

The  Profile  Study. 

III.  His  Biographers,  Censors,  and  Champions 45 

The   Widower   Year  Portrait. 

IV.  The  "Philosophy  of  Composition" 64 

THE  ORGAN  :    an  Experiment 69 

V.  His  Monument. 

the  sketch  79 

the  rhymes   80 


283082 


\ 


r 


NOTES 

ON  THE  PORTRAITS  OF  POE 

There  are  six  or  seven  faces  of  Poe  which  are 
actually  portraits,  and  perhaps  a  score  of  masks, 
that  conceal  or  disfigure  the  original,  and  all  these 
have  been  careering  through  the  book  world  to 
the  confusion  of  the  trustful  reader.  The  former 
are  Daguerreotype  photographs,  and  therefore  as 
reliable  as  sun  pictures  are  supposed  to  be,  which 
is  not  saying  much.  The  others  are  hand  copies 
by  painters  and  engravers,  who  usually  improve, 
more  or  less,  upon  their  model,  not  always  to  the 
gain  of  the  original.  Pretty  pictures  are  one 
thing,  and  character  portraits  quite  another. 
Fashion  favors  the  picture  rather  than  the  mirror 
ing.  This  latter  is  the  aim  of  the  present  portrayer, 
who,  needless  to  confess,  is  an  entirely  untrained 
dabbler  with  the  pencil,  with  no  plea  to  offset  the 
artistic  criticisms  of  the  scornful. 

My  finding  of  the  "Lavante"  satire  while  rum 
maging,  as  a  stranger,  among  the  catalogues  of 
the  Astor  Library  in  New  York  (see  page  18) 
led  to  renewed  interest  in  everything  concerning 
Poe,  his  character  and  career.  The  duality  of  his 
nature  had  long  exercised  the  wits  of  one  addicted 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


The    two 
Poes. 


the  dark  and  clustering  hair,  the  mouth  whose 
smile  was  sweet  and  winning ....  this  man  has  not 
only  the  gift  of  beauty  but  the  passionate  love  of 
beauty.  .  .  .But  look  at  some  Daguerreotype  taken 
shortly  before  his  death,  and  it  is  like  an  inaus 
picious  mirror,  that  shows  all  too  clearly  the 
ravage  made  by  a  vexed  spirit  within  and  loses 
the  qualities  which  only  a  living  artist  could  feel 
and  capture. .  .  .Here  is. .  .  .the  bitterness  of  scorn 
....  In  Bendann's  likeness,  indubitably  faithful,  we 
find. .  .  .hardened  lines  in  chin  and  neck. .  .  .the 
face  tells  of  battling,  of  conquering  external  ene 
mies,  of  many  a  defeat  when  the  man  was  at  war 
with  his  meaner  self." 

Posing  has  become  an  art  and  science  in  these 
progressive  days.  Who  would  grudge  woman 
kind  the  artless  joy  of  being  "taken"  in  the  guise 
of  a  star  actress,  an  empress,  or  a  reigning  beauty? 
None  but  the  wretch  who  could  hint  that  the  step 
was  a  mistake,  because  the  pose  imposes.  Who 
has  the  heart  to  smile  at  the  youth,  whose  name 
is  legion,  because  he  assumes  a  noble  expression 
when  facing  the  camera?  If  he  is  not  Napoleon 
crossing  the  Alps  he  is  Washington  crossing  the 
Delaware,  and  not  until  he  contemplates  that  pic 
ture  does  he  realise  his  full  measure  of  potential 
greatness.  He  never  forgets  it  afterwards.  The 
trouble  about  this  kind  of  portrait  is  disconcerting 
oftentimes.  One's  reading  of  these  impressive 
pictures  may  prepare  us  to  meet  greatness  as 
greatness  should  be  met — with  courtesies  and 


NOTES   ON  HIS  PORTRAITS. 


expectations  proportioned  to  the  figure,  which 
may  dwindle  to  dwarf  stature  at  the  first  spoken 
word. 

So  in  the  search  for  the  verisimilitude  of  a 
famous  person  we  are  thrown  off  the  scent  by 
Daguerreotypes,  glass  and  paper  photographs,  in 
which  the  well-meaning  sun,  emblem  of  divine 
light  and  power,  gets  badly  foiled  by  those  shadow 
imps  who  symbolize  the  Prince  of  Darkness.  The 
veriest  gradation  between  a  light  and  a  shade  in 
photography  imparts  beauty  or  ugliness  to  a  fea 
ture,  which  often  means  salvation  or  damnation 
to  the  character.  The  philanthropic  profession  of 
the  deft  retoucher  would  no  doubt  long  ere  this 
have  been  classed  and  rewarded  as  is  that  of  the 
pulpiteer  but  for  our  modest  reluctance  to  own 
our  indebtedness  to  her  saving  grace.  And  then, 
there  is  no  little  agony  of  conscience  in  deciding 
on  the  degree  of  fidelity  in  the  photos  of  our 
friends,  whose  more  exquisite  traits  seem  to  come 
out  in  studios  of  strangers  and  shrink  back  when 
we  welcome  them  to  our  hearts  and  homes. 

Poe,  for  instance.  Two  legends  circulate  about 
him,  the  one  portrays  him  as  "beautiful"  of  aspect, 
the  other  as  the  reverse.  Even  his  biographers, 
and  biographers  are  always  infallible,  paint  his 
character  in  the  two  extremes,  something  less  than 
a  saint,  something  worse  than  a  sinner;  an  angel, 
perhaps ;  fallen,  sure.  The  pages  which  follow  deal 
with  some  major  and  minor  characteristics  of  one 
whom  I  may  not  speak  of  as  the  greatest,  or  one 


Sun 
portraits. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


The 

Button 

clue. 


among  the  great,  or  even  as  the  least  of  American 
poets,  because  New  York's  "Hall  of  Fame"  has 
no  niche  for  Poe,  and  the  readers  of  New  York's 
literary  "Critic"  would  not  include  him  in  their 
list  of  the  Ten  Foremost  Writers  of  the  United 
States. 

NOTES  ON  THE  FACES 

The  faces  here  presented  are  offered  as  charts 
rather  than  pictures,  the  intent  being  to  get  at,  if 
at  all  possible  by  rule  of  thumb  guided  by  this  and 
that  light  of  the  eye,  the  sum  of  Poe's  contradic 
tory  characteristics,  of  face  and  mind.  One  can 
pick  out  a  line  here  and  a  twist  there  from  the 
various  Daguerreotypes,  and  construct  a  fairly 
probable  index  to  Poe's  make  up,  but  the  feature 
that  bothered  pure  intellect  most  was — the  Button. 
The  great  Button  problem  is  not  to  be  ignored  in 
this  field  of  scientific  research.  Some  of  these 
absolutely  faithful — because  photographic — por 
traits  show  us  that  Poe  had  this  among  his  peculi 
arities  of  genius,  his  coat  buttons  were  on  the  left 
side.  This  trait  indicated,  of  course,  that  the 
gentle  Poe  inherited  the  feminine  temperament, 
as  women  never  wear  their  buttons  right.  We 
stand  open  to  correction  by  the  tailor-made  lady, 
whose  better  judgment  in  all  matters  ever  com 
mands  our  homage. 

We  of  the  laity  talk  glibly  of  photographic  nega 
tives  though  we  might  be  puzzled  to  define  a 
positive.  A  Daguerreotype  is,  used  to  be,  a  sil- 


NOTES   ON   THE   FACES. 


vered  metal  plate,  the  mirror  of  the  ancients.  The 
victim  looked  into  this  mirror,  which  "took"  him 
in  beautifully.  When  we  look  at  a  Daguerreotype 
we  see  him  as  it  saw  him,  i.  e.,  in  reverse.  Now, 
not  many  of  us  can  stand  reverses  without  losing 
something,  particularly  our  pleasant  expression, 
which  is  the  photographer's  most  valuable  asset. 
In  analysing  these  portraits,  as  reproduced  in  book 
plates,  it  was  puzzling  to  be  sure  whether  Poe 
parted  his  hair  on  the  right  side  or  the  left.  So 
much  in  character  depends  on  the  turn  of  a  hair. 
But  for  fear  of  inspiring  fond  mothers  with  a  new 
and  cruel  intellectual  fad,  I  might  remark  in  pass 
ing  that  more  men  of  uncommon  abilities  have 
their  natural  parting  on  the  right  side  than  I  have 
noticed  among  the  lefts,  in  proportion  to  numbers. 
On  the  principle,  doubtless,  by  which  black  sheep 
are  the  distinguished  minority  of  their,  and  often 
of  our,  flock.  Poe  had  the  brand  of  wig  that  any 
one  could  part  anywhere  and  itself  everywhere,  as 
witness  these  painful  efforts  to  depict  the  hue, 
sheen,  style  and  corkscruity  of  each  separate  lock. 
Those  were  the  heydays  of  romantic  poets  and 
corybantic  orators,  so  many  of  whom  safely  reck 
oned  on  the  common  herd  appreciating  the  calf- 
brain  according  to  the  display  of  full-grown  Buf- 
falo-billity  outside. 

Here  came  the  grand  solution  by  the  differentia] 
button  calculus.  If  in  this  portrait  Poe's  hair  is 
parted  on  his  right  side,  and  in  that  one  on  his 
left,  he  evidently  did  it  for  the  gratification  of  his 


The 

turn  of 
a  hair. 


10 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


biographers  lacking  any  stronger  proofs  of  their 
contention  that  he  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the 
"Imp  of  the  Perverse."  But  in  copies  of  the  same 
Daguerreotype  the  hair  is  parted  now  on  the  but 
ton  side,  and  again  on  the  side  of  the  buttonholes. 
For  example,  take  the  one  now  owned  by  the 
Players'  Club,  New  York.  It  is  a  fine  portrait  in 
essentials,  and  is  distinguished  by  triplet  ringlets 
standing  out  at  right  angles  from  the  left  side  of 
his  head.  This  is  the  side  of  the  hair  parting. 
How  do  we  know?  Because  it  is  the  buttonhole 
side.  The  same  photo  is  reproduced,  that  is, 
exquisitely  engraved  on  steel  as  the  frontispiece  in 
Prof.  Woodberry's  "Life  of  Poe,"  lavishly  fattened 
and  beautified  out  of  character-semblance,  but  it 
adorns  a  book  that  needs  it.  In  the  "India  Paper 
Edition"  (see  body  of  the  book  for  fuller  notices 
of  these  biographies)  this  Players'  portrait  is 
identically  copied.  In  volume  XII  of  Professor 
Harrison's  Virginia  Edition,  is  a  feeble  wash, 
wishy-wash,  drawing  of  this  portrait,  but  reversed, 
and  in  volume  XVI  is  another  reversed  copy,  with 
the  character  details  nicely  washed  out.  Another 
and  an  important  full  face  Daguerreotype,  pretty 
surely  the  last  one  taken,  a  few  months  before  Poe 
died,  misleads  us  into  swearing  that  he  parted  his 
hair  on  the  right,  especially  as  his  right  hand,  as 
it  seems,  is  thrust  into  his  vest.  Not  until  we 
note  that  the  parting  is  on  the  buttonhole  side, 
and  not  on  the  right,  do  we  awake  to  the  fact 
that  this  is  one  of  the  negative  Daguerreotypes, 


NOTES   ON    THE   FACES. 


ii 


showing  Poe  as  in  the  permanent  mirror,  and  not 
as  to  our  eye. 

So  be  it,  says  the  patient  reader,  and  what  if  it 
is?  Much  ado  about  trifles.  To  which  pardon 
able  criticism  the  answer  is — please  turn  to  the 
Transposable  Portrait  which  forms  the  frontis 
piece. 

This  is  an  experiment  in  the  obverse  and  reverse, 
the  positive  and  negative,  in  faces.  The  above 
mentioned  Daguerreotypes  show  different  charac 
teristics,  speaking  generally,  as  we  view  them  on 
the  page,  and  then  look  at  them  from  the  back 
as  we  hold  the  page  to  the  light.  To  test  one's 
theory  of  Poe's  contradictory  temperament  and 
features  I  made  a  tracing  of  the  largest  face  I 
have  seen  in  a  magazine  (either  the  first  8cribner98 
or  the  Century  some  years  ago).  This  tracing  has 
been  somewhat  accentuated  for  the  present  pur 
pose,  and  forms  the  uncut  page.  The  cut,  or 
divided  page,  shows  when  both  halves  are  united 
a  reversed  duplicate  of  the  former.  Note  the 
prominent  temple,  and  the  contrast  between  the 
expressions  in  positive  and  negative.  Ignore  but 
tons. 

Now,  suppose  that  the  right  and  left  of  Poe's 
head  and  face  had  been  cast  in  exactly  the  same 
mould,  might  that  have  affected  his  character  in 
some  way? 

Turn  down  one  of  the  half-faces  and  observe  the 
outcome  of  this  experiment  in  re-forming  Poe's 
make-up.  In  the  swelled-head  unity  we  see  the 


The 

experi 
ment. 


12 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


The 

levelled 

head. 


top-heavy  brain  that  bred  and  fed  on  eerie  fancies, 
strange  monstrosities,  grotesques  and  arabesques, 
of  the  unbalanced  mind  that  "laughs  but  smiles 
no  more."  This  head  will  reel  at  the  sight  of  even 
a  pencil  drawing  of  Cork,  with  the  bottle  a  hun 
dred  miles  away.  Happily  all  round,  including  a 
biographer  or  two,  Poe  had  no  more,  at  most, 
than  half  a  head  like  this,  the  typical  poet-head  of 
the  common  hydrocephalic  species. 

Now  lift  that  and  lay  down  the  other  half-face. 
Philip  is  himself  again,  sober  and  sane.  The 
square  headed  constructor  of  stories  and  poems, 
architect,  builder,  and  adorner  with  art.  If  only 
Poe  had  administered  one  of  the  drugs  his  loving 
"life"  writers  guess  at,  being  certain  only  of 
"coffee  and  wine"  (!),  if  he  had  found  a  way  to 
still  the  midnight  revelry  of  that  wild  sleepless 
bloated  half-brain,  long  enough  to  let  the  bal 
anced-half  conduct  the  business  and  worldly-wise 
tactics  of  a  struggler's  life,  Poe  could  have  sanc 
tified  his  fame  in  the  estimation  of  well-to-do  pur 
veyors  of  lightning  lunch  literature,  cooked  and 
flavored  to  order.  But  the  brain  of  Poe  the  Critic 
and  Poe  the  Poet  was  a  lordly  house  divided 
against  itself.  This  experiment  is  worth  what  it 
is  worth  to  the  curious  in  such  matters  and  is 
indifferent  to  valuations  so  long  as  interest  pro 
vokes  to  further  thought. 

And  there  is  interest,  indeed,  in  the  testimony 
of  Mrs.  Maria  Louise  Shew,  the  friend  in  need 
in  Poe's  darkest  hours.  Herself  trained  in  the 


NOTES   ON   THE  FACES. 


medical  profession  of  her  father,  this  excellent 
lady  recorded  the  significant  fact  in  her  diary  that 
"in  his  best  health  he  had  lesion  of  one  side  of  the 
brain.  As  he  could  not  bear  stimulants  or  tonics, 
without  producing  insanity,  I  did  not  feel  much 
hope  that  he  could  be  raised  up  from  brain  fever 
brought  on  by  extreme  suffering  of  mind  and 
body — actual  want  and  hunger  and  cold  having 
been  borne  by  this  heroic  husband  in  order  to  sup 
ply  food,  medicine  and  comforts  to  his  dying  wife, 
until  exhaustion  and  lifelessness  were  so  near  at 
every  reaction  that  even  sedatives  had  to  be 
administered  with  extreme  caution." 

When  we  speak  of  a  beautiful  or  a  handsome 
face,  our  testimony  does  not  stand  unless  backed 
by  that  essential  which  it  is  almost  a  universal  rule 
to  ignore — definition.  An  old  lantern  has  not  a 
prepossessing  appearance,  but  see  it  when  glorified 
by  its  light  in  the  dark.  Beauty  may  be  skin  deep, 
which  makes  it  popular,  or  so  deep  that  skin  fan 
ciers  fail  to  find  it  in  the  depths,  whereupon  they 
dub  it  "homely."  This  prostitution  of  the  sweetest 
descriptive  in  the  language  could  never  have 
become  general  if  the  American  people  (politicians 
excepted)  had  been  trained  in  the  common  sense 
practice  of  defining  their  terms,  or  in  the  true 
appreciation  of  all  the  beauties  that  ennoble  this 
despised  word — homeliness.  Poe  was  called  beau 
tiful  by  men  as  well  as  women,  and  in  all  sincerity, 
as  they  spoke  of  his  moments  of  exaltation.  They 
saw  the  ocean  sparkling  in  the  summer  sun,  and 


"Homely' 
faces. 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


Poe 
self- 
portrayed. 


happily  escaped  the  sight  of  it  in  the  black  mid 
night,  writhing  in  its  normal  state  of  sullen,  chill 
ing  gloom.  He  was  born  with  the  makings  of  a 
male  stage  beauty,  long,  black  wavy  hair,  pallid 
complexion,  dark,  expressive  eyes  and  other 
coveted  features,  yet  he  knew  that  they  failed  to 
bring  the  crowning  charm.  Of  his  tormenting 
demons  one  delighted  to  spoil  the  lantern  oil. 
With  genius  enough  to  keep  a  score  of  plain  faces 
aglow,  he  let  his  own  endure  eclipse  till  it  wore 
sombreness  as  a  perpetual  veil. 

Let  us  see  his  own  picture  of  the  Poe  he  had 
known. 

"It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  could  bring  myself 
to  admit  the  identity  of  the  wan  being  before  me 
with  the  companion  of  my  early  boyhood.  Surely, 
man  had  never  before  so  terribly  altered,  in  so  brief 
a  period.  Yet  the  character  of  his  face  had  been 
at  all  times  remarkable.  A  cadaverousness  of 
complexion;  an  eye  large,  liquid,  and  luminous 
beyond  comparison;  lips  somewhat  thin  and  very 
pallid,  but  of  a  surpassingly  beautiful  curve ;  a  nose 
of  a  delicate  Hebrew  model,  but  with  a  breadth 
of  nostril  unusual  in  similar  formations;  a  finely 
moulded  chin,  speaking,  in  its  want  of  prominence, 
of  a  want  of  moral  energy;  hair  of  a  more  than 
web-like  softness  and  tenuity ;  these  features,  with 
an  inordinate  expansion  above  the  regions  of  the 
temple,  made  up  altogether  a  countenance  not 
easily  to  be  forgotten.  And  now  — !" 

I  stop  thus  abruptly  this  extract  from  "The  Fall 


NOTES   ON   THE   FACES. 


of  the  House  of  Usher."  The  Wedding  Year  face 
is  a  fanciful  attempt  to  recall  the  young  man  of 
twenty-five  under  a  favoring  glint  of  sunshine. 

Few  profiles  indicate  the  full-face  expression. 
This  is  why  many  prefer  that  pose.  Half  a  loaf, 
the  proverb  says,  is  better  than  no  bread  at  all; 
undoubtedly,  but  in  portraiture  an  honest  slice  of 
the  loaf  is  preferable  to  a  pretty  bit  of  corner 
crust.  As  the  current  portraits  give  no  sure  and 
certain  outline  of  Poe's  nose,  which  was  a  cross 
between  Greek  and  aquiline,  I  have  ventured  a 
delineation,  which  differs  from  that  of  Zolnay's 
bust,  on  Poe's  own  authority. 

This  is  more  or  less  a  copy  of  the  Daguerreotype 
(mentioned  above)  taken  within  about  twelve 
months  of  Poe's  death.  Several  replicas  seem  to 
be  in  existence,  some  printed  in  reverse,  and  they 
are  dated  by  guesswork  1848  and  1849.  The  one 
certainty  is  that  they  portray  the  poet  in  his  last 
and  deplorable  phase.  Here  are  the  deep-etched 
tracks  of  sorrow,  the  uncanny  curves  contrived  by 
the  ugly  demon  to  caricature  the  once  pure  lines 
of  grace.  The  eyes  have  dissolved  partnership, 
the  long  lovelocks  are  changed  to  snakes  that 
wriggle  and  writhe  like  things  of  evil  set  on  to 
madden  the  precious  spirit  in  the  casket  prisoned. 
This  is  the  portrait  of  a  high  priest  of  despair. 

Five  years  earlier  than  the  date  of  this,  the  "Sat 
urday  Museum"  gave  a  biography  and  a  portrait 
of  Poe,  famous  before  he  wrote  "The  Raven/'  He 
sent  a  copy  to  a  friend,  "herewith  I  forward  the 


The 
Smiling 

face. 


The 

Profile 

study. 


The 

Widower 
year 
portrait. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


The 
Fates 
as    face 
artists. 


8.  M.,  containing  a  biography  and  caricature,  both 
of  myself.  I  am  ugly  enough,  God  knows,  but  not 
quite  so  bad  as  that.'' 

Later  caricaturist  biographers  sniff  the  traces  of 
evil  drugs,  "coffee  and  wine,"  as  they  turn  up  their 
superfine  noses  at  these  portraits  in  reverse. 
Again  Poe: 

"The  errors  and  frailties  which  I  deplore,  it  can 
not  at  least  be  asserted  that  I  have  been  the  coward 
to  deny.  Never,  even,  have  I  made  attempt  at 
extenuating  a  weakness  which  is  (or,  by  the  bless 
ing  of  God,  was)  a  calamity,  although  those  who 
did  not  know  me  intimately  had  little  reason  to 
regard  it  otherwise  than  as  a  crime.  For,  indeed, 
had  my  pride,  or  that  of  my  family,  permitted, 
there  was  much — very  much — there  was  every 
thing — to  be  offered  in  extenuation.  There  was 
an  epoch  at  which  it  might  not  have  been  wrong 
in  me  to  hint — what  by  the  testimony  of  Dr.  Fran 
cis  and  other  medical  ni£n  I  might  have  demon 
strated,  that  the  irregularities  so  profoundly 
lamented  were  the  effect  of  a  terrible  evil  rather 
than  its  cause."  This  is  from  Poe's  letter  "To  the 
Public"  in  the  Philadelphia  "Spirit  of  the  Times," 
1846. 

Recurring  to  the  portrait  in  the  Players'  Club, 
I  quote  a  bit  from  a  letter  written  by  Gabriel  Har 
rison  in  1865  to  Mrs.  Clemm,  the  good  mother  of 
Virginia  Poe  and  her  famous  husband.  It  is  given 
in  the  Virginia  Edition  of  Poe's  works. 

"You  know  how  much  respect  I  have  for  the 


NOTES   ON   THE  FACES. 


memory  of  Eddie,  a  memory  that  takes  its  grace 
from  his  great  genius,  and  as  I  always  believed 
him  to  have  had  a  gentler  and  nobler  nature — I 
have  of  late  felt  it  a  sacred  duty  to  see  justice  done 
his  likeness.  All  the  pictures  that  have  as  yet  been 
published  of  him,  or  prefixed  to  his  Poems,  are 
to  me  perfect  failures. 

I  have  photographed  the  Daguerreotype  of  him 
which  is  in  my  possession,  and  which  in  my  opin 
ion  is  excellent,  as  I  remember  him,  and  have  been 
working  it  up  in  water  colors  for  the  purpose  of 
presenting  it  to  the  Long  Island  Historical 
Society,  therefore  I  desire  it  to  be  the  authentic 
likeness  of  our  great  poet." 

This  refers  to  the  prematurely  aged  face  here 
presented.  The  reader  will  indulge  his  fancy  in 
picturing  the  living  original,  somewhere  between 
Gabriel  Harrison's  loyally  "worked  up"  water 
color,  and  my  possibly  worked  down  interpreta 
tion  of  defective  prints  from  an  unsatisfactory 
Daguerreotype. 


The 
retoucher. 


20 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Choosing 
a  Sample. 


prises  about  950  lines.  The  fact  of  Poe's  author 
ship  was  pretty  clearly  shown  a  few  years  ago  by 
an  enterprising  gentleman,  hiding  himself  behind 
the  nom  de  plume  of  Geoffrey  Quarles,  who 
unearthed  the  original  Philadelphia  edition  in 
some  out  of  the  way  place  and  carefully  edited  a 
reprint."  This  extract  is  credited  by  Mr.  W.  M. 
Griswold  to  the  New  York  Evening  Post  of  July 
8,  1893. 

If  a  London  publication  of  the  exalted  literary 
status  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post  were  to 
speak  of  a  similar  "find"  in  the  Reading  Room  of 
the  British  Museum  or  the  Guildhall  Library  as 
having  been  "unearthed  in  some  out  of  the  way 
place"  (the  Astor  Library),  the  literary  tribe  of 
that  metropolis  would  feel  it  awkward  that  a  strik 
ing  poem,  by  a  striker  poet  on  his  stricken  con 
temporaries,  could  so  long  have  escaped  their 
patriotic  familiarity  with  their  poets  and  greatest 
libraries. 

The  only  recognition  from  Professors  Harrison 
and  Kent  personally  is  this  sentence :  "The  editor 
(of  Vol.  VII,  endorsed  by  the  editor  of  the  seven 
teen  volumes)  has  copied  one  hundred  lines  of  the 
'Lavante'  satire  from  the  Philadelphia  edition  of 
1847,  and  herewith  presents  them  to  the  reader  for 
his  judgment  as  to  whether  they  are  Poe's  or  not." 

Then  follow  one  hundred  lines  of  the  satire, 
being  the  first  and  introductory  lines,  bearing  the 
same  relation  to  the  satire  proper  as  the  average 
preface  to  the  contents  of  a  book.  The  learned 


THE   WEDDING    YEAR    PORTRAIT,    page    15. 

This    maiden    she    lired    with    no    other    thought    than    to    love    and    be 
loved  by    me. 

— ''Annabel  Lee." 


THE   "LAV ANTE"   SATIRE. 


editors  did  not  leave  room  in  the  seventeen  vol 
umes  for  a  hundred,  nor  a  score,  nor  even  ten  of 
the  satire  lines  that  paint  the  literary  portraits  of 
thirty  American  poets  as  "Lavante"  saw  them.  If 
among  these  thirty  the  famous  but  inconvenient 
Poe  had  been  portrayed,  it  is  just  conceivable  that 
a  ten-line  space  might  have  been  spared  to  enable 
the  Virginia  Edition  to  illustrate  the  "Lavante" 
gallery  as  fairly  as  it  does  its  doorway. 

The  discriminating  editors  dissent  from  my  con 
clusion  that  "Lavante"  and  Poe  are  identical,  but 
they  do  not  attempt  to  discuss,  nor  even  cuss, 
openly,  my  cumulative  argument.  They  do  not 
notice  my  pile  of  evidence,  which  fills,  with  the 
argument,  over  forty  pages  of  the  book  of  no 
pages  in  which  I  reprinted  the  satire. 

They  deem  it  judicious,  if  not  judicial,  to  consti 
tute  the  average  "reader"  the  court  competent  to 
try  a  case  requiring  special  knowledge,  arid  the 
careful  weighing  of  intricate  details  withheld  from 
this  court.  They  present,  with  an  engaging  air 
of  impartiality,  as  a  sufficient  exhibit  in  the  case, 
the  portico  of  a  house  as  yet  unbuilt,  from  which 
the  court  is  to  judge  the  architecture  and  strength 
of  the  invisible  edifice.  Then,  to>  enlighten  this 
myopic  tribunal  and  encourage  its  expected 
adverse  decision,  the  editors  have  appended  this 
helpful  hint  to  their  one-tenth  per  cent  sample  of 
the  satire ; 

"Dr.  Kent  does  not  believe  that  these  lines  are 
by  Poe." 


Assisting 

the 

judgment. 


22 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Grisw  old's 
Immor 
tals. 


When  the  court  gets  one  eye  clear  it  perceives 
that  this  admirably  ambiguous  dictum  is  consist 
ent  with  silent  belief  that  the  satire  portraits  in  the 
remaining  850  lines  are  verily  by  Poe,  or  cannot 
be  denied  him. 

Actuated  by  more  primitive  notions  of  justice 
than  are  allowed  to  linger  in  some  advanced 
coteries  of  certain  progressive  centres  of  scholar 
ship,  appeal  is  now  taken  to  the  higher  court  of 
impartial  investigation  by  experts,  and  those  will 
ing  to  become  so  by  simply  sifting  the  evidence 
here  given  for  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  noth 
ing  but  the  truth. 

SUMMARY    OF   FACTS    AND    PROBABILITIES. 

Only  the  briefest  epitome  of  these  is  possible 
here,  but  this  and  other  matters  of  interest  con 
cerning  Poe,  not  adequately  studied  by  his 
biographers,  will  be  treated  in  a  work  by  the  pres 
ent  writer,  which  will  include  some  efforts  at  the 
true  portrayal  of  a  select  company  of  poets  born 
under  his  luckless  star. 

The  satire  opens  fire  on  Rufus  Griswold,  the 
dispenser  of  laurels  to  his  bookful  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  immortals,  in  which  Poe  only  got  a  place 
by  ungracious  compulsion.  Of  this  number  Poe's 
drastic  criticisms  killed  and  scattered  all  but  about 
ten.  "What  a  cartoon  he  drew,"  says  Mr.  Edmund 
Clarence  Stedman,  "of  the  writers  of  his  time — 
the  corrective  of  Griswold's  optimistic  delinea 
tions  !" 


THE   "LAV ANTE"   SATIRE. 


In  1847,  the  wretchedest  year  he  ever 
experienced,  his  output  was  unusually  small.  In 
1843  and  1845  ne  nad  lectured  in  Baltimore  and 
New  York  on  "The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America," 
The  American  Review,  February,  1845,  reports 
that  in  this  lecture  Poe  "made  unmitigated  war 
upon  the  prevalent  Puffery,  and  dragged  several 
popular  idols  from  their  pedestals." 

The  Home  Journal  of  March  20,  1847, 
announced  that  there  would  shortly  be  published 
"The  Authors  of  America,  in  Prose  and  Verse ;  by 
Edgar  Allan  Poe."  Mr.  Woodberry,  in  his  "Amer 
ican  Men  of  Letters''  biography,  published  before 
my  "Lavante"  brochure,  says  this  never  appeared. 
Note  the  curious  phrasing  in  the  above  title.  Is 
there  a  Poesque  cryptic  suggestion  that  he,  Poe, 
might  write  of  the  "American  Authors"  in  his  own 
Prose  and  Verse? 

This  1847  "Lavante"  satire  was  anonymous,  and 
so  was  the  only  typical  Poe-poem  published 
in  that  year — "Ulalume."  In  December,  1846, 
Poe  says,  "I  am  now  at  this — body  and  soul."  At 
what?  Preparing  to  publish  "Some  honest 
Opinions  about  (the  Literati),  Autorial  Merits  and 
Demerits,  with  occasional  words  of  Personality," 
etc.  Ingram,  the  English  biographer  who  errs  on 
the  side  of  partiality  for  Poe,  confesses  an  uncom 
fortable  doubt  as  to  the  possibility  of  the  MS. 
of  this  work  in  prose  and  verse  having  been  "lost" 
by  Rufus  Griswold,  to  whose  keeping  as  literary 
executor  Poe's  papers  were  entrusted.  This  is 


Foe's 
"losf 
work. 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


The 

"lost" 
work 
found. 


unkind.  All  we  really  know  is  that  Griswold  had  a 
fine  talent  as  a  literary  executioner  during  Poe's 
lifetime,  and  that  it  quite  unnecessarily  gave  vim 
to  his  notorious  obituary  anathematization  of  the 
poor  corpse  in  the  New  York  Tribune  on  the  day 
after  the  poet's  death. 

Among  the  press  notices  of  my  argument  on 
Lavante"  were  a  couple  of  suggestions  that  the 
satire  was  probably  the  work  either  of  Lambert 
A.  Wilmer,  whose  "Quacks  of  Helicon7'  was  killed 
by  Poe's  review  of  it,  or  of  Laughton  Osborn, 
whose  "Vision  of  Rubeta"  Poe  rescued  from 
oblivion,  its  title  only,  by  his  more  friendly  crit 
ique.  I  dismiss  this  matter  with  the  remark  that 
there  has  not  yet  been  a  serious  attempt  to  dis 
prove  my  contention. 

As  to  the  euphonious  pseudonym,  "Lavante," 
Poe  was,  and  remains,  the  supreme  euphonist 
One  of  his  characters  in  "Politian"  is  "Lalage." 
In  other  of  his  pages  we  find  "Levante"  and 
"Lalande,"  and  a  hundred  verbal  symphonies. 

I  might  elaborate  these  materials  to  fill  every 
page  in  this  book,  but  will  stop  here.  I  submit 
that  anyone  anxious  to  disprove  the  Poe  author 
ship  of  this  satire  (which  is  none  the  less  poetical 
despite  his  warning  that  "a  satire  is,  of  course,  no 
poem"),  must  produce  on  the  witness  stand  a  man 
who,  with  Poe's  motives,  Poe's  intellect,  Poe's 
strength  and  weakness,  Poe's  literary  judgments, 
prejudices,  contempt  for  mediocrities,  and  love  of 
mystery,  was  yet  not  Poe  himself. 


THE 
POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA 

A   SATIRE 

Clime  of  the  brave!  entire  from  sea  to  sea! 
Vain  is  thy  boast  that  thou  art  blest  and  free ! 
Oh,  servile  slave  to  eastern  rules  and  rhyme, 
Almost  from  Milton's  blank  to  Chaucer's  chime! 
Thy  own  proud  bards  behold !  a  motley  band 
To  lead  the  music  of  their  native  land. 

Immortal  GRISWOLD!  thine  the  deathless  name 
Shall  bear  the  palm  of  more  than  mortal  fame ! 
For  thine  the  lofty  boast  at  once  to  save 
The  humble  bard  perchance  from  hapless  grave, 
Weave  with  his  crown  thy  fadeless  laurel  bays, 
And  with  thy  nursling  gain  undying  praise. 

[Poe  did  not  conceal  his  contempt  for  this  self- 
appointed  accoucheur  of  his  country's  poetical 
genius,  even  in  his  review  of  Griswold's  volume, 
"The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,"  in  Graham's 
Magazine,  June,  1842.  Admitting  its  interest  as  a 
collection  of  national  verse,  he  protested  against 
the  exclusion  of  several  writers  of  distinction,  while 
"there  are  many  mere  versifiers  included."  The 
Boston  coterie  were  unduly  favored,  except  that 
Lowell  had  been  inadequately  represented.  In  his 


26 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


Poetry 
in  the 
forties. 


review  of  Griswold's    third    edition,    1843, 
experiments  in  prose  satire  akin  to  vituperation. 

"Is  Mr. — we  ask  his  pardon — the  Reverend  Mr. 
Griswold  (so  puffed,  praised,  and  glorified  in 
advance),  the  man  of  varied  talents,  of  genius,  of 
overweening  intellect,  he  was  somewhere  pictured, 
or  is  he  the  arrant  literary  quack  he  is  now  entitled 
by  the  American  press?. ..  .That  he  has  some 
talents  we  allow,  but  they  are  only  those  of  a 
mediocre  character;  indeed,  every  third  man  one 
might  meet  in  a  day's  walk  is  his  equal,  if  not  his 
superior.  As  a  critic  his  judgment  is  worthless. 

His  self-esteem  is  strangely  developed.     Here 

we  have  him  in  his  capacity  of  'author'  of  the 
Toets  and  Poetry  of  America/  as  thirteenth  in 
the  list,  and  of  course  superior  to  Lowell,  Poe 
(seven  others  named),  who  follow  him.  Un 
exampled  modesty!"] 

Awake,  satiric  muse!  awake  in  might 
To  strike,  for  Poesy's  insulted  right! 

The  chase  is  up,  arise  and  onward  press, 

If  mean  the  game  yet  not  the  sport  is  less! 

In  modern  times,  who  may  not  hope  for  praise 

When  all  we  ask  is  but  unmeaning  lays? 

And  thoughtless  bards  can  suit  the  servile  throng 

With  heartless  verse  and  worse  than  worthless  song. 

[Not  Byronic  themes,  nor  Pope's  philosophy  or 
wholesome  satire,  not  even  Campbell  songs  of 
joyous  Hope,] 

Alike  when  life  is  sad  or  wrapt  in  ease ; 

Not  these  the  subjects  which  our  times  demand 

To  please  the  public  and  to  curse  the  land! 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


[Shadowy  word  pictures  of  filmy  fancies,  pretty 
washy  drawings  of  hackneyed  scenes  or  scenery, 
or  sickly  dream  stuff  done  up  in  verse  or  worse;] 

No  more  we  ask;  no  more  the  bard  can  give — 
In  times  like  these  can  mind  or  merit  live? 

[Poet  Poe  was  not  a  prophet.  He  did  not 
foresee  a  day  when  Poesy  would  flourish  as  a 
mechanic  art-craft,  when  "mind"  would  be  content 
with  the  quarry  slave's  work  and  wage,  and 
"merit"  chisel  the  blocks  into  cunning  fake  similes 
of  the  more  or  less  antique.] 

Too  proud  to  stoop,  or  heed  the  critic's  rage, 
Such  is  my  crime  before  this  righteous  age ; 
I  printed  but  to  suit  the  present  whim 
Without  a  preface,  or  a  suppliant  hymn. 

[He  holds  no  man  a  genius  who  dare  not  risk 
his  work,  if  satisfactory  to  himself  in  point  of  art, 
defiant  of  Mrs.  Grundy's  goody  criticism.  "The 
fact  is,"  says  Poe  in  a  notice  of  Bayard  Taylor, 
"someone  should  show  how  and  why  it  is  that  the 
ubiquitous  quack  in  letters  can  always  'succeed/ 
while  genius — which  implies  self-respect,  with  a 
scorn  of  creeping  and  crawling — must  inevitably 
succumb."  This  cruel  suggestion  was  all  right  for 
those  deplorable  days,  but  would  he  now  seriously 
propose  to  resurrect  another  pen-sceptred  Herod 
to  massacre  the  Innocents  of  the  chosen  tribe?] 

The  poet's  heart,  the  poet's  sense  sublime 

Was  born  for  torture  and  his  soul  for  rhyme. 

Intense  his  feeling  and  severe  his  pain, 

That  sullen  frown  no  more  from  love  would  gain; 


and 

"in  times 

like 

these." 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


The 

tortured 

heart. 


So  nice  his  texture,  and  so  fine  the  mould 

None  e'er  can  guess  what  ne'er  to  sight  is  told, 

Nor  search  the  secrets  of  a  soul  like  his, 

Or  from  the  common  mind  imagine  this, 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  rapture  and  delight 

Are  all  his  own — and  impulse  all  his  light. 

Earth,  air,  and  sea,  the  planet  and  the  sun 

Are  but  the  elements  of  art  begun ; 

The  inner  world,  the  sphere  of  thought  and  mind, 

The  mysteries  that  make  and  move  mankind 

To  him  are  servile,  and  for  him  were  made, 

Yea,  but  for  him,  would  still  from  beauty  fade. 

Thus  noble  wit,  as  by  a  skill  divine 

Ennobles  nature  and  prevents  decline ; 

Thus  beauty  sways  and  anguish  rends  the  heart, 

By  passion  wrought  into  the  height  of  art. 

[The  first  ten  lines  of  this  passage  strikingly 
recall  Poe's  essay  on  "The  Poetic  Principle," 
which  he  delivered  as  a  lecture,  and  which 
appeared  in  "Sartain's  Magazine"  shortly  after  his 
death.  If  their  beauty  is  impaired  by  the  neces 
sity  of  expression  in  heroic  couplets,  Poe  antici 
pates  the  criticism  and  draws  its  sting  by  his 
significant  dictum,  "A  satire  is,  of  course,  no 
poem."  This  utterance  has  been  carefully  ignored 
by  biographers  a.nd  reviewers  who*  have  lightly 
written  themselves  down  as  disbelievers  in  the 
possibility  of  Poe  having  put  his  lecture,  bearing 
the  same  title  as  this  satire,  into  rhymed  couplets 
that  do  not,  "of  course,"  pretend  to  pose  as  a  Poe 
poem.  Nevertheless,  within  their  limitations  these 
ten  lines  hold  a  core  of  poetry  worthy  even  of 
him,  and  certainly  none  among  his  half-hearted 
"friends,"  rhymers  or  prosers,  in  their  grudging 
him  the  credit  of  this  thorny  crown  for  poetasters, 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


29 


has  produced  an  equally  eloquent  verse  vignette 
of  the  genuine  article. 

Now  read  again  the  next  ten  lines,  beginning 
"Earth,  air,  and  sea.7'  Here  the  Poet  claims  the 
universe  as  his  sphere,  with  right  to  soar  to  the 
firmament,  and  from  its  pure  ether  view  the  top 
most  peaks  of  the  knowable  and  at  will  probe 
the  dark  profundities  of  philosophy.  Does  this, 
too>,  strike  the  august  dispensers  of  Poe-destiny 
as  hopelessly  unlike  the  author  of  "The  Bells," 
whom  they  are  graciously  willing  to  patronize  if 
he  remains  screwed  up  in  the  nice  little  casket 
they  have  wrought  for  him? 

Is  it  forgotten  that  Poe  actually  composed  and 
published  a  philosophical  rhapsody?  With  this 
extraordinary  composition  he  thought  to  place  the 
capstone  on  the  edifice  of  his  life-work.  If  a 
rhymed  satire  is  no  poem,  how  much  less  so  must 
be  a  prose  disquisition  on  the  laws  of  cosmology. 
Yet  this  is  the  title,  "EUREKA:  A  Prose  Poem; 
by  Edgar  A.  Poe."  It  was  a  book  of  some  two 
hundred  pages,  published  the  year  before  his 
death.  Three  sentences  from  its  first  page  must 
suffice  as  index  to  the  range  of  this  astounding 
treatise : 

"What  terms  shall  I  find  sufficiently  simple  in 
their  sublimity — sufficiently  sublime  in  their  sim 
plicity — for  the  mere  enunciation  of  my  theme? 
I  design  to  speak  of  the  Physical,  Metaphysical, 
and  Mathematical — of  the  Material  and  Spiritual 
Universe: — of  its  Essence,  its  tOrigin,  its  Crea- 


Poe 
as 

Philoso 
pher. 


EDGAR   ALLAN   FOR. 


In  this 

prose 

outsoar- 

ing  all 

poets 

of  the 

time. 


Griswold 
as  a 
"blown 
god!' 


tion,  its  Present  Condition  and  its  Destiny.  I 
shall  be  so  rash,  moreover,  as  to  challenge  the 
conclusions,  and  thus,  in  effect,  to  question  the 
sagacity,  of  many  of  the  greatest  and  most  justly 
reverenced  of  men.'' 

In  the  full  maturity  of  his  powers — not  merely 
as  a  maker  of  verse  and  stories  but  as  a  (probably 
too)  profound  and  intense  thinker — Poe  dedicated 
this  Prose  Poem  to  Humboldt.  Pitifullest  of 
fates — fastidious  artist-poet  curst  with  the  mad 
ness  for  wrenching  the  secrets  of  God  from  the 
ever  unknowable!  Conceive  if  you  can  the 
agonized  expression  of  triumph-despair  as  he 
dashed  down  these  following  words  in  his  short 
Preface,  in  the  dread  instant  of  halting  between 
letting  it  live  or  perish  in  the  flames  as  a  forlorn 
hope. 

"What  I  here  propound  is  true: — therefore  it 
cannot  die : — or  if  by  any  means  it  be  now  trodden 
down  so  that  it  die,  it  will  'rise  again  to  the  Life 
Everlasting/  Nevertheless  it  is  as  a  Poem  only 
that  I  wish  this  work  to  be  judged  after  I  am 
dead."] 

The  night  was  up,  when  all  serene  and  glad 
Each  tuneful  bard  was  for  the  banquet  clad, 
While  GRISWOLD'S  self,  like  Jeffrey  on  his  throne 
Was  raised  sublime  and  to  a  god  was  blown. 

[The  trembling  bards  cringe  before  him,  strug 
gling  to  offer  their  vows  and  incense  on  the  altar 
of  Fame  over  which  the  "blown"  god  presides. 
Francis  Jeffrey  was  the  "hanging  judge"  of  the 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


Edinburgh  Review,  who  gleefully  sentenced  Byron, 
Wordsworth,  Shelley,  Coleridge  and  their  school 
to  death — which  proved  the  gate  to  immortality. 
Poe's  criticisms  killed  only  Griswold  pets,  and  the 
"blown  god"  himself  failed  to  balloon  them  to 
Valhalla.] 

First  comes  great  WILLIS,  trembling  to  his  heels, 
Invokes  the  god,  and  for  his  country  feels. 
But  few  indeed  could  boast  such  matchless  head, 
So  well  proportioned  and  so  rich  in  lead ; 
Each  fearful  bump  phrenologists  would  say 
Was  thunderproof  till  thunder's  self  decay ; 
So  thick  the  skull  where  few  ideas  meet, 
For  dulness  and  decay  a  calm  retreat. 

[Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  was  the  most  popular 
writer  of  verse  and  chatty  prose.  He  made  his 
way  into  fashionable  literary  salons  in  London, 
where  his  dandyism,  agreeable  ways,  and  Ameri 
can  celebrity  won  him  the  favor  of  lords  and 
ladies,  whose  manners  and  homes  he  pictured  for 
his  countrymen.  Lavante  honors  Willis  with  a 
second  tribute.] 

All  hail !  great  searcher  of  the  human  heart,  ,,    , 

As  great  in  prose  as  in  poetic  art,  MaVian- 

Wn 


Immortal  WILLIS,  hail!  in  whom  combine 
The  base  and  great  with  wit  to  make  thee  shine. 
An  exile  from  thy  native  land  and  home, 
Well  pleased  in  other  lands  to  rhyme  and  roam, 
Lest  villain  hands  should  strive  to  make  thee  just 
To  hungry  creditors,  ill-fed  on  trust ; 
As  light  in  heart  as  fickle  in  thy  mind, 
Canst  thou  describe  the  motives  of  mankind? 
Hast  thou  acquired  the  rarer  skill  to  sing 
The  flood  of  feeling  from  its  fountain  spring? 
As  well  might  Etna's  fiery  summit  bloom, 
Or  light  surround  the  cypress-shaded  tomb, 


iel 

Parker 

Willis. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


William 

Cullen 

Bryant. 


As  thou  relate  in  numbers  fresh  and  true 

Whence  actions  spring,  or  life  its  essence  drew. 

Yet  thou  canst  write,  from  eastern  shore,  the  change 

Of  faithless  custom,  ever  wild  and  strange, 

Or  rhyme  from  thence  some  tale  of  hopeless  love 

To  please  fair  Venus  or  her  silly  dove ; 

Address  the  Spring,  or  April,  in  a  lay 

With  Wordsworth  for  thy  tune  in  mellow  May, 

Enough — to  gain  the  Western  critic's  praise 

And  crown  thy  brow  with  fadeless  laurel  bays, 

Enough  to  gain,  where  more  should  own  the  name, 

A  poet's  prize,  a  poet's  envied  fame ! 

Such  is  the  toil,  and  such  the  slightest  care 

To  swell  to-day  this  bubble  of  the  air. 

[Compare  Poe's  note  on  Willis  in  The  Literati. 
"Mr.  Willis  is  yet  young.  .  .  .Without  being  hand 
some  his  face  is  somewhat  too  full,  or  rather  heavy 
in  its  lower  portions.  Neither  his  nose  nor  fore 
head  can  be  defended;  the  latter  would  puzzle 
phrenology. .  . .  As  a  poet  Mr.  Willis  is  not  entitled 
to  so  high  a  rank  as  he  may  justly  claim  for  his 
prose.  His  style  proper  may  be  called  extrava 
gant,  Mzarre,  pointed."  "However  highly  we 
respect  Mr.  Willis's  talents  we  have  nothing  but 
contempt  for  his  affectations." — Broadway  Jour- 
nal,  1845.] 

In  meads  of  green  and  woodland  shades  at  rest 
Next  view  the  lofty  BRYANT  greatly  blest, 
Who  with  his  brother-bards  alone  can  sing 
That  streamlets  gild  and  flowers  deck  the  spring, 
Nor  little  thinks  how  slight  the  profit  hence 
When  beauty  charms,  not  aids  our  common  sense. 


When  sunset  softly  gilds  the  western  sky 
And  all  but  paints  enchantment  to  the  eye, 
Nor  wakes  a  sense,  but  wakes  to  love  the  hue 
From  farewell  beam  on  skies  of  azure  blue; 
Can  scene  like  this,  the  fairest  of  our  earth 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


33 


Awake  the  thoughts  of  more  than  mortal  birth, 

Or  rouse  the  nobler  feelings  of  the  soul? 

Or  is  delight  the  poet's  noblest  goal? 

Has  not  the  heart  its  passions,  as  the  brain 

The  power  to  light  the  fancy  in  its  train? 

Yes !  there  are  springs  of  thought  and  feeling  chaste 

No  vulgar  eye  hath  to  their  fountain  traced ; 

Nor  knows  the  bard  but  half  his  proper  art 

Who  aims  to  please  the  eye,  not  rend  the  heart. 

[William  Cullen  Bryant  was  but  a  stripling  in 
his  teens  when  he  began  writing  "Thanatopsis," 
which  was  published  before  he  attained  his 
majority.  Stedman  observes  that  "no  one  else 
of  like  years  ever  composed  a  single  poem  that 
had  so  continuous  and  elevating  an  effect  upon 
the  literature  of  a  country.''  It  set  the  heavy 
pace  for  aspirants  until  Longfellow  ambled  more 
cheerily  and,  with  "The  Waterfowl/'  this  poem 
marks  the  summit  of  Bryant's  poetical  genius. 

Though  fifty-three  years  old  when  this  satire 
was  printed  it  hails  him  as  "the  younger  Bryant" 
and  notes  "young  Bryant's  scowl."  In  "The 
Literati"  Poe  wrote,  "it  will  never  do  to  claim 
for  Bryant  a  genius  of  the  loftiest  order,  but  there 
has  been  latterly,  since  the  days  of  Mr.  Long 
fellow  and  Mr.  Lowell,  a  growing  disposition  to 
deny  him  genius  in  any  respect ....  'Thanatopsis' 
is  the  poem  by  which  he  is  best  known  but  it  is 
by  no  means  his  best  poem.  The  concluding 
thought  is  exceedingly  noble,  and  has  done  won 
ders  for  the  success  of  the  whole  composition." 

Again,  in  "The  Poetic  Principle,"  he  says,  "he 
who  shall  simply  sing,  with  however  glowing 


34 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Oliver 

Wendell 

Holmes. 


enthusiasm  or  vivid  truth  of  description,  of  the 
sights,  and  sounds,  and  odors,  and  colors,  and 
sentiments,  which  greet  Mm  in  common  with  all 
mankind — he,  I  say,  has  yet  failed  to  prove  his 
divine  title.''  Happily  for  the  undivine,  trade 
in  commonplace  potrey-padding  still  flourishes 
galore.] 

Next  comes  our  noble  Doctor,  HOLMES  we  call, 
Still  bent  to  jest  in  spite  of  wit  and  gall, 
Still  prone  to  rhyme  with  or  without  a  soul, 
Style,  ornament,  and  rhyme  the  poet's  whole. 
Those  tin-pan  joys  which  catch  the  listless  ear 
Awhile  delight,  then  worse  than  vile  appear. 

Such  is  thy  boast,  proud  Holmes,  to  touch  the  heart, 

If  not  by  genius,  by  thy  native  art ! 

For  grant  thy  lofty  strain  but  once  begun, 

How  rich  and  how  exhaustless  is  thy  fun  S 

As  true  thy  song,  no  doubt,  as  holy  writ, 

One  merit  more — it  has  some  idle  wit. 

[Some  badinage  of  "idle  wit"  follows,  pointed 
by  the  Doctor's  earthly  profession.] 

So  light  thy  verse,  a  plaything  of  the  air, 
Must  mortal  live  on  unsubstantial  fare 
Or  he  who  takes  it  for  an  ague  chill, 
Must  own  at  least  it  was  a  pleasant  pill. 

[Griswold  decreed  that  "as  a  versifier  Holmes 
is  equal  to  Tennyson,  and  with  the  same  patient 
effort  would  every  way  surpass  him."  On  which 
Poe  advises  Holmes  "to  beg  Mr.  Griswold  not  to 
puff  him,  or  he  may  depend  upon  his  poems  being 
incontinently  damned."  The  author  of  "The 
Raven"  was  scarcely  by  right  divine  entitled  to 
sit  upon  the  author  of  "The  One  Hoss  Shay," 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


35 


nor  to  enjoy  the  carollings  of  any  born  i'  the  vein 
of  jollity.  Poe's  humor  was  an  arrow  barbed  at 
both  ends,  worse  luck.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
physicked  more  thousands  out  of  their  doleful 
dumps  with  his  inkpot  than  he  cured  scores  with 
pills  and  potions.  Where  Poe  gave,  and  still 
gives,  weaklings  the  creeps  at  midnight,  Holmes 
sends  sweet  slumbers  without  the  aid  of  soporifics. 
The  present  writer  recalls  his  early  experiences 
under  these  two  treatments,  and  must  hold  for 
once  with  the  doctor  as  against  the  minister  of 
dis-ease  to  minds  unripe.  Many  years  later  this 
old  esteem  took  on  a  flush  of  vainglory  on  receiv 
ing  a  note  from  the  Tom  Hood  of  America  saying 
that  a  certain  bit  of  homemade  wit-jingle  "has 
given  me  as  much  pleasure  as  if  Tom  Hood  had 
written  it,"  over  the  sea.] 

Shall  HALLECK  not  one  passing  moment  claim? 
Blest  bard !  immortal  in  Bozarris'  name ! 

[No  didactic  theme  inspired  this  singer,  as  it 
might  have  swamped  him  in  the  blues.] 

But  those  who  bled  and  fell  in  freedom's  cause 
Thy  worthier  theme — attest  it  our  applause ! 
Nay,  though  the  hero  bravely  fought  and  fell, 
Though  thine  own  music  fall  like  magic  spell, 
Grant  that  thy  palm  and  praise  is  fairly  won, 
Is  all  achieved  that  mortal  might  have  done? 


Scorn  the  vile  throng  as  if  in  vengeance  set 
To  write  for  each  vile  monthly  and  gazette ; 
Extend  thy  sphere,  thy  native  powers  expand, 
And  as  confessed  immortal  poet  stand. 


Fits- 
Greene 
Halleck. 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


Albert 
Pike. 


[Fitz-Greene  Halleck  was  gifted  with  powers 
that  should  have  ranked  him  with  the  highest 
school  of  poets,  but  he  was  an  easy-going  cynic, 
and  his  backbone  gave  out  when  he  was  made 
factotum  for  old  John  Jacob  Astor. 

"Of  late  days,"  wrote  Poe  in  Graham's  Maga 
zine,  1843,  "Halleck  has  nearly  abandoned  the 
Muses,  much  to  the  regret  of  his  friends  and  to 
the  neglect  of  his  reputation.  He  is  now  in  the 
maturity  of  his  powers  (in  his  fifty-fourth  year), 
and  might  redeem  America  from  an  imputation 
to  which  she  has  been  too  frequently  subjected — 
the  imputation  of  inability  to  produce  a  great 
poem.''] 

Who  that  sings  the  gods,  albeit  unlike, 

More  seems  their  proper  son  than  ALBERT  PIKE? 

Oh,  Albert  Pike !  stick  to  thy  godlike  lay, 

Thy  gods  and  goddesses  in  long  array ! 

No  matter  if  in  wit  and  judgment  weak, 

Thy  faults  confess,  their  grace  and  pardon  seek. 

As  some  soft  stream  which  glides  unheard  along, 

So  glide  thy  music,  so  expire  thy  song ; 

So  melt  thy  melody  into  the  soul, 

That  not  thy  foe  may  say — it  all  was  stole ! 

[Mixed  with  this  raillery  there  is  sincere  respect 
for  Pike's  "Hymns  to  the  Gods"  and  other  work. 
The  refrain  to  "The  Raven"  was  charged  as  a 
plagiarism  or  imitation  of  Pike's  "Isadore,"  which 
may  account  for  the  acidity  in  the  passage  partly 
quoted  above.  In  the  prose  of  his  "Autography" 
Poe  writes  without  bias.  "Pike  has  merit,  and 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


37 


that  of  a  high  order.  He  is  the  most  classic  of 
our  poets  in  the  best  sense  of  the  term.  Upon 
the  whole,  there  are  few  of  our  native  writers  to 
whom  we  consider  him  inferior."] 

Hail,  soft  Humanity !  whose  genial  ray 
Delights  the  soul  along  thy  simple  lay! 
Friend  of  the  slave !  whose  rough  and  rugged  verse 
Might  burst  his  chains,  his  hopeless  fate  reverse. 

[To  whom  could  lines  like  these  and  the  follow 
ing  apply  but  to  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  the 
Abolitionist  laureate?  The  satire  appears  to  have 
been  composed  piecemeal  and  carelessly  put 
together  for  printing.  The  four  lines  above,  and 
six  more,  come  on  page  17,  and  fourteen  more 
on  page  18,  which  we  do  not  quote,  and  then,  on 
page  21,  we  find  thirty-two  more,  in  which 
Whittier's  name  first  appears.] 

Vain  is  thy  claim  to  blest  Apollo's  sacred  lyre,  (  !) 
Since  not  his  beams  thy  lifeless  note  inspire. 


No  matter  this— let  blame  be  light  to  thee, 
Thine  be  the  boast  of  soft  humanity. 

I  surely  mean  not,  WHITTIER,  an  offence. 

[Well  for  thee  in  sticking  to  homely  themes, 
as  a  touch  of  the  romantic  might  burst  thy 
genius.] 

No,  Whittier,  no— !  thpu  must  not  stray 
Where  hap  like  this  might  snatch  thy  wits  away, 
Nor  seek  the  south,  where  spring  for  ever  reigns 
To  deck  the  sunny  mount  and  sloping  plains, 
Lest  too  much  heat  should  melt  thy  feeble  brain, 
And  turn  thy  watery  muse  to  mist  again. 


John 

Greenleaf 

Whittier. 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Poc's 

dislike 

°f 

didactic 

verse. 


No — Whittier — no  !  far  better  than  to  roam, 
To  cherish  pride  in  love  of  sacred  home, 
And  worship  Nature  in  her  solitude 
Beneath  thy  native  sky  and  mountains  rude ; 
Thus  safe  to  sing  thy  tale  of  childhood  o'er, 
Till  infants  shout  and  humbly  ask  for  more. 

[Poe  was  a  southerner,  mis-delivered  in  Boston. 
He  had  neither  political,  personal,  nor  poetical 
sympathy  with  northerners. 

"Man  is  only  incidentally  a  poetic  theme: — we 
mean  the  heart  and  intellect  of  Man;  matters 
which  the  pseudo-transcendentalists  of  Frog- 
pondium  (Boston)  are  perpetually  attempting  to 
force  into  poetry." — Broadway  Journal,  1845.  In 
the  "Autography"  he  writes,  "Whittier  is  placed 
by  his  particular  admirers  in  the  very  front  rank 
of  American  poets.  We  are  not  disposed  to  agree 
with  their  decision  in  every  respect.  He  is  a  fine 
versifier ....  has  a  certain  vivida  vis  of  expression 
which  seems  to  be  his  forte,  but  in  taste,  and  espe 
cially  in  imagination ....  he  is  ever  remarkably 
deficient.  His  themes  are  never  to  our  liking." 

Some  of  us  roamers  through  and  around  the 
wilderness  of  printed  poetry  have  made  ascents  of 
cloud-capped  hills,  explored  the  gorgeous  and  the 
wild,  the  Persian  gardens  and  the  dark  border 
lands  where  Will  o'  the  Wisps  beguile  into  foul 
bogs,  and  we  come  back  vowing  never  again  to 
mistake  grandeur  for  true  delight  in  scenery, 
poetry,  or  home.  Vistas  of  rolling  farm  and 
garden  land,  studded  with  village  belfry  towers, 
embowered  cottage  groups,  and  stately  manor 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


39 


gables,  as  in  mellowed  England,  no  prisoning  hill 
walls  to  rob  our  horizon  view  and  no  monotony 
of  prairie  flat  nor  overpowering  bullies  of  forest 
or  torrent  to  vaunt  their  bigness  over  our  puny 
but  free-soaring  selves — this  is  the  scenery  we  can 
live  with  in  perfect  and  unwavering  happiness. 
Of  all  our  American  poets  commend  me  to  Whit- 
tier's  sweet  spirited  strain,  his  uniquely  modest 
pose,  and  when  we  ponder  his  broad-based 
patriotism,  fiery  when  fire  was  the  need  yet  charac 
teristically  serene,  with  sunset  glow  of  peace,  it  is 
tempting  to  whisper  that  his  heart  and  song  would 
have  been  cheaply  gained  for  his  country's  good, 
at  any  time  these  forty  years,  by  swapping  for 
his  inspiration  nine-tenths  of  the  magazine  shoal 
of  pareasitical  laureatettes.] 

Shall  LOWELL  still  by  dreams  inflate  his  pride 
And  ramble  most  where  most  the  mists  reside? 

[This  solitary  allusion  to  James  Russell  Lowell 
is  like  the  remnant  of  a  cancelled  passage.  Poe 
had  various  attitudes  towards  Lowell,  according 
to  circumstances,  as  will  be  seen.  In  1842,  as 
has  already  been  noted,  and  again  in  1844,  in 
Graham's  Magazine  for  March,  he  writes  gra 
ciously,  'This  new  volume  of  poems  by  Mr.  Low 
ell  will  place  him. .  .  .at  the  very  head  of  the  poets 
of  America."  In  Godey's  Lady's  Book,  August, 
1845,  he  gives  Lowell  instruction  in  literary  pre 
cision,  calls  his  "Conversations  on  the  Poets"  a 


James 

Russell 

Lowell. 


40 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Poe, 
"three- 
fifths  of 
him 
genius." 


farce  and  dubs  the  author  "the  Anacharsis  Clootz 
of  American  letters." 

In  1848  Lowell  published  his  "Fable  for 
Critics,"  in  which  he  paid  his  famous  compliment 
to  Poe. 

Here  comes  Poe  with  his  Raven,  like  Barnaby  Rudge, 
Three-fifths  of  him  genius,  and  two-fifths  sheer  fudge ; 
Who  talks  like  a  book  of  iambs  and  pentameters, 
In  a  way  to  make  all  men  of  common  sense  d —  metres ; 
Who  has  written  some  things  far  the  best  of  their  kind, 
But  somehow  the  heart  seems  squeezed  out  by  the  mind. 

The  "Fable"  was  reviewed  by  Poe  in  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  March,  1849,  at 
great  length,  and  he  quotes  the  lines  above,  refer 
ring  to  himself  in  the  third  person.  The  thing 
is  "loose,  ill-conceived  and  feebly  executed.  Some 
good  hints  and  sparkling  witticisms  do  not  com 
pensate  for  its  rambling  plot — if  plot  it  can  be 
called,  and  for  the  want  of  artistic  finish,  especially 
in  its  versification ....  Mr.  Lowell  is  one  of  the 
most  rabid  of  the  Abolitipn  fanatics,  and  no 
Southerner  who  does  not  wish  to  be  insulted 
should  ever  touch  a  volume  by  this  author. .  . . 
He  has  not  the  common  honesty  to  speak  well, 
even  in  a  literary  sense,  of  any  man  who  is  not  a 
ranting  abolitionist.  With  the  exception  of  Mr. 
Poe  (who  has  written  some  commendatory  criti 
cisms  on  his  poems)  no  Southerner  is  mentioned 
at  all  in  the  Table.'  "  Then  follows  the  quotation. 

[Mr.  Lowell  professed  entire  ignorance  of  the 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


Lavante  satire  when  it  was  brought  to  his  notice 
by  the  present  writer.] 

Arise,  ye  bards !  assume  the  nobler  lay ! 
Let  common  sense  and  genius  lead  the  way, 
New  worlds  create  of  deathless  thought  and  mind, 
And  prove  yourselves  an  honor  to  mankind; 
Ne'er  let  the  muse  those  meaner  themes  regard, 
Or  not  complain  the  poet's  fate  is  hard ! 
Let  Cambridge  rouse  her  proud  adopted  son 
The  bard  to  dare,  nor  themes  sublime  to  shun, 

[This  short  allusion  to  Longfellow  avoids  the 
furious  controversy  which  a  few  years  back  had 
raged  over  Poe's  accusations  of  plagiary  and  imita 
tion  by  the  Cambridge  Professor.  Reviewing  the 
"Ballads  and  Poems"  in  1842,  Poe  had  expressed 
admiration  for  Longfellow's  "genius"  while  depre 
cating  "his  many  errors  of  affectation  and  imita 
tion  ....  His  artistical  skill  is  great  and  his  ideality 
high,  but  his  conception  of  the  aims  of  poesy 
is  all  wrong,  and  this  we  shall  prove  at  some  future 
day.  His  didactics  are  all  out  of  place."  Three 
years  later,  being  in  an  unwontedly  genial  mood 
after  lecturing  in  Boston,  he  indulged  in  this  sweet 
little  reverie  in  the  Broadway  Journal. 

"We  like  Boston.  We  were  born  there — and 
perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  not  to  mention  that  we 
are  heartily  ashamed  of  the  fact.  The  Bostonians 
are  very  well  in  their  way.  Their  hotels  are  bad. 
Their  pumpkin  pies  are  delicious.  Their  poetry 
is  not  so  good.  Their  Common  is  no  common 
thing — and  the  duck  pond  might  answer — if  its 
answer  could  be  heard  for  the  frogs. 


Henry 
Wads- 
worth 
Longfel 
low. 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


"I  too  can 

rhvme." 


"But  with  all  these  good  qualities  the  Boston- 
ians  have  no  soul.  They  have  always  evinced 
towards  us  individually  the  basest  ingratitude  for 
the  services  we  rendered  them  in  enlightening 
them  about  the  originality  of  Mr.  Longfellow." 

Poe  had  charged  him  with  imitations  of  Tenny 
son,  Motherwell,  Bryant,  and  the  writer  of 
"Politian." 

And  now,  in  conclusion,  a  few  couplets  from 
"Lavante's"  scornful  farewell  to  the  minstrels: 

With  you,  ye  minor  b'ards,  I  hold  not  war; 
Much  as  yourselves  would  I  that  strife  abhor, 
Too  dull  your  muse  offence  to  give  or  take, 
My  hate  to  rouse,  or  at  my  thrust  awake ; 
So  cold  your  strain,  so  dead  your  accents  fall 
Great  thanks  to  GRISWOLD  that  ye  live  at  all. 

I  too  can  rhyme,  and  in  my  time  have  sung 
When  hope  was  high,  and  infant  muse  was  young, 
Too  proud  in  sense,  too  much  of  manly  tone, 
I  gave  but  challenge  to  be  heard  and  known, 
No  crouching  prayer  to  gain  the  critic  round, 
No  favor  sought,  nor  common  mercy  found. 
Yet  thanks  to  Western  fools,  in  haste  to  kill 
They  could  not  gall  me  with  satiric  quill! 

Once  I  could  bear  all  which  the  best  can  bear, 
Could  scorn  at  pain,  and  hate  at  times  the  fair, 
But  now,  by  slight  experience  taught  to  strike, 
I  but  repel  where  others  make  dislike. 

Too  well  my  gentle  spirit  some  may  know: 
Cry  up  the  chase — I  can  repay  a  blow ; 
Once  I  could  bend,  or  feign  to  bend,  the  knee, 
When  conscience  told  'twas  order's  just  decree, 
I  could  dissemble  scorn,  and  strive  to  seem 
As  calm  as  love  embracing  in  a  dream; 
No  charge  could  drag  resentment  from  its  rest, 
My  brow  was  smooth,  my  heart  was  well  possest, 


NOTES  ON  THE  SATIRE. 


43 


What  now  is  done  not  prudence  would  recall, 
If  pain  ensue,  what  sooner  might  befall? 
Should  public  hate  upon  my  pen  react, 
No  matter  this — I  will  not  aught  retract. 


LAVANTE. 


[Out  of  the  abundance  of  prose  parallels  to  this 
defiance  quotable  from  Foe's  later  writing's  only 
this  one  is  selected. 

"In  the  (my)  late  lecture  on  "The  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  America''  (at  Boston)  I  took  occasion 
to  speak  what  I  know  to  be  the  truth  and  to  speak 
it  that  there  should  be  no  chance  of  misunder 
standing  in  what  I  intended  to  say.  I  told  these 
(editors  and  their  connections)  to  their  teeth  that, 
with  a  very  few  noble  exceptions,  they  had  been 
engaged  for  many  years  in  a  system  of  indis 
criminate  laudation  of  American  books — a  system 
which  had  tended,  more  than  any  other  one  thing 
in  the  world,  to  the  depression  of  that  American 
Literature  whose  elevation  it  was  desired  to  effect. 
Could  I,  at  the  moment,  have  invented  any  terms 
more  explicit,  wherewith  to  express  my  contempt 
of  our  general  editorial  course  of  corruption  and 
puffery,  I  should  have  employed  them,  and  should 
I  think  of  anything  more  expressive  hereafter,  I 
will  endeavor  to  find  or  make  an  opportunity  for 
its  introduction  to  the  public.  (The  italics  are 
ours.) 

"And  what,  for  all  this  had  I  to  anticipate?  In 
a  very  few  cases  the  open  or  silent  approval  of 
the  more  chivalrous  portion  of  the  press,  but  in  a 
majority  of  instances  I  should  have  been  weak 


Foe's 
threat   of 
a  scathing 
satire. 


44 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


The  curi 
ous  final 
couplet. 


indeed  to  look  for  anything  but  abuse."     Broad 
way  Journal,  1845. 

FOE'S  CRYPTOGRAMS. 

Remembering  his  love  of  mystery  and  genius 
for  cryptographic  writing  it  appeared  possible  that 
if  Poe  had  versified  his  lecture,  he  might  have 
hidden  the  authorship  in  the  last  couplet : 

SHOULD  PUBLIC  HATE  UPON  MY  PEN  REACT, 
NO  MATTER  THIS — I  WILL  NOT  AUGHT  RETRACT. 

I  find  the  four  following  sentences  are  contained 
in  this  couplet : 

EDGAR   ALLAN    POE; 

AMERICAN    POETS    AND   POETRY,   A   SATIRE. 

A    SATIRE,    EVERY    WORD    TRUE;    EDGAR    ALLAN    POE, 

A   TRUE   AND    HONEST   SATIRE,   BY   EDGAR  ALLAN    POE. 

Take  this  for  what  it  is  worth.  Curiously 
enough,  the  titles  of  the  two  satires  reviewed  by 
Poe,  "The  Quacks  of  Helicon"  and  "The  Vision 
of  Rubeta,"  cannot  be  got  out  of  this  couplet. 
Neither  can  the  names  of  those  poets  in  the  satire 
who  just  possibly  might  be  suspected  of  its  author 
ship,  Griswold,  Lowell,  Holmes,  Pike,  Benjamin, 
Longfellow,  Dawes,  Pinkney,  Willis,  Whittier, 
Clarke,  Halleck,  Tucker,  Hoffman,  Parker. 

Lastly,  the  very  first  man  to  be  satirized  by  any 
brother  poet,  and  the  last  one  to  be  omitted  from 
a  general  round-up,  would  have  been  Edgar  Allan 
Poe.  The  absence  of  his  name  it  was  that  started 
me  on  this  quest. 


PROFILE  STUDY,  page    15. 

Deep   into  the  darkness  peering,  long  1   stood  there,  wondering,   fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream  before. 

—"Tlit  Raven." 


Ill 


HIS  BIOGRAPHERS,   CENSORS  AND 
CHAMPIONS 

Harrison's  Virginia  edition  of  the  Complete 
Works  of  Poe,  17  vols.  1903. 

As  elsewhere  stated,  this  is  a  welcome  work, 
as  complete  and  well  edited — with  the  exceptions 
noted — as  is  probably  possible  or  needed.  It 
begins  to  do  justice  to  this  master  workman  in  his 
exclusive  field  of  poetry;  as  the  pioneer  of  and 
model  for  pure  criticism  in  this  country;  as  the 
first  and  last  of  its  true-born  short  story  con 
structors,  and  the  greatest  of  its  literary  martyrs. 

And  yet  the  taint  of  musty  prejudice  hangs 
over  many  a  page. 

Under  the  newer  code  sanctified  by  the  exam 
ples  of  Froude  among  biographers,  Mrs.  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe  and  later  feminine  undrapers  of 
Byron,  and  by  the  approved  usage  of  majority 
journalism,  I  suppose  it  is  excellent  taste  to  reprint 
the  atrocious  blackguardisms  of  Dr.  "Ben  Bolt" 
English,  digging  them  up  from  the  grave  in  which 
the  New  York  law  court  thought  it  was  burying 
them  forever  when  it  condemned  that  slanderer 
to  make  a  goodly  reparation  to  his  victim.  This 
quite  unnecessary  resurrection  of  laid  ghouls  is 


Garbage 
rakers. 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


Alas, 
alas! 


balanced  by  the  long  extract  from  Nathaniel  P. 
Willis's  noble  defence  of  Poe  against  Griswold's 
despicable  obituary  assault  the  day  after  the  poet's 
death. 

One  must  not  doubt  that  patriotic  charity  for 
the  sins  of  a  sinless  people's  sole  great  literary 
man  makes  it  incumbent  on  his  biographers  to 
blazon  every  echo  of  magnified  scandal,  every 
backbite  of  ignorant  gabble  and  snarl  of  envy,  in 
their  books,  which  are  the  outcome  of  disinterested 
longings  to  show  how  maddeningly  cruel  those 
infamous  slanders  were  to  a  too  sensitive  nature. 
There  can,  I  suppose,  be  no  objection  on  the  plea 
of  kindness,  or  fairness,,  to  spice  one's  business 
venture  in  biography  with  superabundant  remind 
ers  that  its  hero  resorted  to  the  biblical  recipe*  to 
allay  "the  extreme  anguish  and  straitened  circum 
stances,"  which  caused  "his  descent  into  the  moral 
and  physical  Maelstrom, ''  a  catastrophe  which — 
far  from  kindling  scriptural  sympathy — "made 
him  indeed  only  a  shining  mark  for  malice  and 
malignity."  Pious  sto-ry tellers  about  great  men, 
greatly  weakened  by  great  tribulations,  find  it  easy 
to  square  their  gossip-lust  with  their  conscience  by 
tagging  on  each  lapse  into  uncharity  some  sweet 
thing  in  humanitarian  commiseration. 

"Alas,  how  full  of  Verlaines,  de  Mussets  and 


*"Give  strong  drink  unto  him  that  is  ready  to  perish,  and 
wine  unto  those  that  be  of  heavy  hearts.  Let  him  drink, 
and  forget  his  poverty,  and  remember  his  misery  no  more." 

Prov.  xxxi. 


CENSORS  AND   CHAMPIONS. 


47 


Baudelaires  the  world  has  been — men  like  Pae, 
endowed  with  preternaturally  sensitive  nerves  (our 
italics),  unable  to  grapple  with  the  coarse  flesh  and 
blood  around  them,  pierced  on  all  sides  by  the 
slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune,  and  suc 
cumbing  at  last  to  the  superincumbent  mass  of 
misery."  This  is  a  very  beautiful  Shakespearean 
passage,  but  it  is  pretty  poor  Virginian  logic  for 
literary  college  professors  to  pile  stale  shame  on 
the  memory  of  a  dead  university  brother  because 
his  "endowment"  brought  him  its  inevitable  usury 
of  agony  until  welcome  death.  Endowments 
come  from  outside  ourselves.  Who  gave  Poe  this 
dower? 

What!  Baudelaire,  de  Musset,  Verlaine,  "men 
like  Poe"!  Pen  wielders  of  Poe's  school  if  you 
please  as  versemongers,  but  to  class  Poe,  the  deep- 
eyed  Critic,  the  clean-souled  Reasoner  in  master- 
prose,  the  exemplar  of  pure  work,  pure  style  and 
sane  writing  as  poet,  analyst,  instructor,  corrector 
of  false  scales,  entertainer,  and  journalist,  with 
these  and  other  useless  drivellers  of  the  sickening 
Decadent  school,  is  to  suggest  a  slander  so  base 
as  could  only  ooze  from  "malice,  malignity,"  or 
amusing  ignorance.  If  only  they  would  resurrect 
Poe  to  teach  his  old  university  his  knack  of  clear 
speech ! 

Woodberry's  Life  of  Poe,  American  Men  of  Let 
ters  series. 

This  work  was  issued  about  1886,  when  the  last 


"Endowed 
•with" 
slings  and 
arrows. 


48 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Aqua 

pura 

from 

tainted 

wells. 


of  the  Poe  copyrights  were  expiring,  and  pub 
lishers  saw  their  opportunity  for  creating  a  Poe 
revival.  The  only  "Life"  with  pretensions  to 
authority  then  available  was  that  by  Richard 
Henry  Stoddard,  its  main  points  of  interest  being 
that  the  author  was  a  poet  and  a  "friend"  of  Poe. 
This  biography  by  the  learned  gentleman  who  was 
appointed  to  a  professorship  in  Columbia  Uni 
versity  soon  after  its  appearance,  was  hailed  as  the 
long  overdue  standard  "Life  of  Poe,"  and  was 
duly  applauded  by  the  reviewers. 

Mr.  Woodberry  frankly  states  that  he  bases  his 
narrative  upon,  inter  alia,  Griswold's  first  sketch, 
printed  when  they  were  friends;  Griswold's 
Memoir,  written  as  Poe's  literary  executor,  "and 
prefixed  to  the  third  volume  of  the  original  edition 
of  Poe's  'Works/  1850,  but  now  suppressed";  and 
Stoddard's  "Life."  These  "authorities,"  says 
Woodberry,  "each ....  contains  original  matter 
peculiar  to  itself,"  a  fact  sufficiently  indicated  by 
his  use  of  the  "suppressed"  Memoir.  His  perfectly 
proper  claim  to  have  given  judicial  consideration 
to  the  conflicting  statements  of  the  above  and  the 
other  less  important  "authorities"  is  freely 
acknowledged.  Not  being  a  devotee  of  or  versed 
in  the  mysteries  of  the  legal  profession,  his  limited 
acquaintance  with  the  judicial  function  as  exer 
cised  in  different  tribunals  seems  to  explain  the 
frigid  atmosphere  of  his  book.  He  picks  up  the 
culprit  at  the  bar,  which  is  to  his  stern  eye  as  truly 
that  of  a  saloon  as  of  public  opinion,  and  though 


CENSORS   AND   CHAMPIONS. 


49 


the  case  to  be  tried  involves  patheti-c  issues  of  fate 
and  human  frailty,  this  junior  judge  proceeds  to 
handle  the  subtle  as  well  as  the  coarser  points  as 
if  he  were  a  Master  in  Chancery  unravelling  tech 
nicalities  in  some  pork  packers'  dispute  over  stock 
in  a  cold  storage  warehouse. 

That  one's  personal  verdict  on  this  book  may 
not  be  supposed  to  stand  alone,  though  quite  able 
to  do  so,  I  quote  from  a  high  literary  authority, 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  in  its  review  of  the  edition 
of  Poe's  works,  edited  by  Stedman  and  Wood- 
berry,  and  published  in  1897.  The  article  is 
headed  "The  New  Poe." 

"Of  all  men  Poe  had  best  reason  to  pray  that 
he  might  be  delivered  from  the  hands  of  his 
friends ....  (The  disfavour  with  which  he  has  been 
regarded)  is  chargeable  to  the  extraordinary  con 
fusion  of  the  man  with  his  work — of  the  ethical 
with  the  purely  literary  aspect,  which  is  so  charac 
teristic  of  literary  judgments  in  this  country.  The 
puritanical  twang  is  to  be  detected  even  in  a  study 
so  conscientious  as  Prof.  Woodberry's  'Life'." 
How  deep  rooted  this  cowardly  persecuting  spirit 
still  is  may  be  guessed  from  the  fact  that  this 
valiant  protester  against  it  found  it  prudent  to 
remain  anonymous. 

Woodberry's  superior  tone  does  not  suffice  to 
nickel-plate  the  brazen  innuendo  in  such  spurious 
coin  as  this  sentence,  following  a  schoolgirl's 
reminiscence  of  Poe,  "it  is  curiously  illustrative 
of  the  speed  with  which  he  established  a  habit 


Missing 
the  work 
and 
hitting 
the  man. 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


The 

major  ex- 
communi 
cation. 


of  intimacy  (our  italics)  with  married  women." 
This  gem  from  his  mine  of  "authorities"  is  all  his 
little  own,  but  it  flashes  far.  About  Poe's  fame 
"has  grown  up  an  idealized  legend."  He  "repeat 
edly  forfeited  prosperity,  and  even  the  homely 
honor  of  an  honest  name,''  this  on  the  "authority" 
of  Dr.  English  the  convicted  slanderer.  Poe  only 
"belonged  to  the  men  of  culture  instead  of  those 
of  originally  perfect  power."  The  women  friends 
of  Poe — almost  the  only  ones  he  ever  had,  and 
every  one  of  them  above  the  shadow  of  reproach 
from  his  enemies — "remained  loyal  to  his  mem 
ory,"  but  their  merely  feminine  weakness  is  nobly 
snuffed  out  by  Woodberry,  whose  closing  (death) 
sentence  proclaims  "the  pitiful  justice  of  Poe's 
fate,  the  dark  immortality  of  his  fame." 

That  the  author  of  these  elegant  extracts  has 
the  advantage  of  poor  Poe  in  that  he  "belongs  to 
the  men  of  originally  perfect  power"  and  not  to 
mere  gentlemen  of  culture  is  possibly  true.  That 
Prof.  Woodberry  is — or  was — a  powerful  poet 
was  impressed  on  the  public  mind  by  his  cordial 
reviewers  in  the  select  literary  papers,  about  the 
time  his  "power"  produced  the  biography.  The 
title,  if  memory  serves,  of  his  poetry  book  was 
"The  North  Shore  Clock,  and  other  Poems."  It 
was  pronounced  a  striking  piece,  but  has  not 
recently  been  heard  in  these  Western  parts,  though 
Connecticut  products  as  a  rule  are  quite  popular 
here. 


CENSORS  AND   CHAMPIONS. 


The  International  Encyclopaedia  has  a  full-dress 
article  on  Poe  which  deserves  high  praise  for  its 
fairness.  The  anonymous  writer  says  that  the 
poet's  fondness  for  abnormal  aspects  of  life  and 
experience  "places  him  in  the  ranks  of  the  modern 
Decadents — whom  he  has  deeply  influenced — but 
he  differs  widely  from  the  men  who  have  followed 
his  lead  in  the  absolute  purity  of  his  thought  and 
imagination." 

This  is  as  admirable  as  it  is  true.  The  appalling 
traditions  of  cyclopaedic  writing  are  of  course 
responsible  for  "placing*'  a  defunct  pioneer  "in 
the  ranks"  of  an  awkward  squad  whose  main  title 
to  notice  is  their  smartness  in  trying  to  walk  in 
the  shoes  of  the  out-of-reach  leader  "who  deeply 
influenced  them."  Translated  into  Poe-prose  the 
above  passage  reads  thus,  and  succeeds  in  saying 
what  the  writer  intended  to  when  he  started : 

"Poe  deeply  influenced  the  modern  Decadents, 
who  wish  to  claim  him  as  one  in  their  ranks,  but 
the  vital  fact  is — in  pretending  to  follow  his  lead, 
Poe's  purity  of  thought  and  imagination  is  the 
one  quality  in  which  these  degenerates  have  not 
followed  him," 

The  latest  Poe  book  is  entitled,  The  Works  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe,  India  paper  edition,  four  thin 
volumes,  with  introductions,  Recollections  of  Poe 
by  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  Biography  by 
George  Mercer  Adams,  contemporary  estimates 
by  Lowell  and  Willis,  notes  and  illustrations. 


Simians 

aping 

Darwin. 


The  Thin 
Poe. 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


"Slight, 

Pole, 
polite, 
elegant, 
luminous- 
eyed. 


The  paper  is  that  of  which  Bibles  and  Prayer 
books  are  made,  a  delicate  indication  that  the 
wheel  is  going  round  and  may  by  and  bye  raise 
Poe  among  the  saints  in  glory.  The  pages  must 
be  fingered  by  our  breath. 

Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 
Made  of  fabric  half  so  fair! 

As  all  the  press  notices  I  notice  with  one  voice 
chanted  the  praises  of  this  tiny  de  luxe  edition,  it 
had  to  be  secured.  These  comments  shall  be  con 
densed  to  match.  The  Stoddard  piece  is,  by  rare 
good  luck,  the  only  portion  of  his  defunct  Memoir 
one  wishes  to  help  to  immortality.  The  editor 
rightly  introduces  it  as  "a  glimpse  of  Poe  which 
has  a  personal  value."  Stoddard  says  he  was 
twenty-one  when  he  met  Poe.  At  that  time  "Dr. 
Rufus  Wilmot  Griswold"  was  also  his  friend, 
"from  whom  I  experienced  nothing  but  personal 
kindness." 

Keats,  a  certain  English  poet,  also  young,  whose 
name  was  John,  had  written  a  popular  poem,  an 
"Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,"  Young  Stoddard,  with 
fine  patriotic  spirit,  matched  it  with  his  own  "Ode 
on  a  Grecian  Flute,"  and  sent  it  to  Poe  with 
generous  permission  for  him  to  print  it  in  the 
Broadivay  Journal,  of  which  he  was  editor.  After 
two  impatient  weeks  Stoddard  called  about  his 
"Flute."  "I  was  struck  with  his  polite  manner 
toward  me,  and  with  the  elegance  of  his  appear 
ance.  He  was  slight  and  pale,  with  large  lumin 
ous  eyes."  Two  more  weeks  passed  and  then 


CENSORS  AND   CHAMPIONS. 


53 


this  appeared  in  the  B.  J.  "We  doubt  the  origi 
nality  of  the  'Ode  on  a  Grecian  Flute/  for  the 
reason  that  it  is  too  good  at  some  points  to  be 
so  bad  at  others.  Unless  the  author  can  reassure 
us  we  decline  it." 

The  indignant  stripling  went  boldly  up  to 
Go-liath  in  his  den,  and  spake  these  words : 

"  'Mr.  Poe,  I  called  to  assure  you  that  I  did 
write  the  'Ode  on  a  Grecian  Flute'/  Poe  started, 
glared  at  me,  and  shouted — 'You  lie!  get  out  of 
here,  or  I'll  throw  you  out !' ' 

We  can  credit  the  act  but  not  the  English  of 
the  fastidious  editor.  Stoddard  comes  in  here 
with  his  Grecian  chorus — "Do  I  blame  Poe?  The 
gods  forbid !"  He  had  his  reasons.  Here  follows 
his  last  word,  a  paragraph  which  is  itself  an 
imperishable  Monument  of  the  Nation's  Poet  and 
How  it  Spoiled  him. 

"I  had  glimpses  of  Poe  afterward  in  the  streets, 
but  we  never  spoke.  The  last  time  that  I  remem 
ber  to  have  seen  him  was  in  the  afternoon  of  a 
dreary  autumn  day.  A  heavy  shower  had  come 
up  suddenly  and  he  was  standing  under  an  awning. 
I  had  an  umbrella,  and  my  impulse  was  to  share 
it  with  him  on  his  way  home,  but  something — 
certainly  not  unkindness — withheld  me.  I  went 
on,  and  left  him  there  in  the  rain,  pale,  shivering, 
miserable,  the  embodiment  of  his  own 

Unhappy  master, 

Whom  unmerciful  disaster 

Followed  fast,  and  followed  faster. 


"in  the 
rain,  pale, 
shivering, 
miserable, 
penniless, 
I  went  on 
and   left 
him 
there." 


54 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Thinner 
and 
thinner 
still. 


There  I  still  see  him,  and  always  shall — poor, 
penniless,  but  proud,  reliant,  dominant.  May  the 
gods  forgive  me!  I  can  never  forgive  myself!" 

We  are  free  to  choose  our  patrons,  and  one  who 
plays  to  the  gods  does  so  because  he  is  surer  of 
their  applause  than  are  those  who  address  the 
inferior  parts  of  the  house.  The  editors  of  this 
edition  may  for  the  moment  have  been  under  the 
influence  of  the  gallery  spirit  when  they  entitled 
this  Stoddard  masterpiece  "Meetings  with  Poe." 
A  finer  literary  sense  might  have  suggested, 
"Stoddard's  Comedy  and  Tragedy  Partings  from 
Poe,"  adorned  with  this  couplet  from  his  obituary 
poem  on  his  famous  friend, 

"His  faults  were  many, 
His  virtues  few." 

Next  after  this  interesting  "glimpse"  follows  a 
what-d'ye-call-it  on  Poe  by  George  Mercer 
Adams,  a  name  that  in  other  of  his  work  com 
mands  high  respect.  He  appears  to  have  been 
instructed  to  do  Poe  cannily,  as  the  Scotch  say, 
in  seven  pages,  or  rounds.  Comments  shall  make 
way  in  favour  of  a  few  beauties.  To  illuminate  the 
unavoidable  parentheses  of  praise  we  have  these 
side-lights.  First  round,  first  line;  "Poe's  undis 
ciplined,  wayward ....  somewhat  vagabond  life 
....  His  shiftless  life,  morally  frail  nature." 
Round  three;  "his  degenerate  life  and  vagabond 
character ....  inherited  tendency  to  irregular  hab 
its.  ..  .given  to  affectation."  Round  four;  "lived 


CENSORS   AND   CHAMPIONS. 


55 


solely  by  his  pen  (how  degrading !)  and  in  an 
erratic  and  Bohemian  fashion ....  At  no  period 
was  he  known  as  a  successful  man/' 

Round  five.  "Put  forth  no  personal  effort  to 
rise  from  a  lower  to  a  higher  and  nobler  nature .... 
An  ingrate  to  his  best  friends. .  .  .Drink  deadened 
his  moral  susceptibilities.  (So  glad  to  see  the 
preacher  admit  that  the  poor  wretch  ever  had 
any!)  His  work  lacks  inspiration  of  the  helpful 
and  ennobling  order."  Round  seventh,  the  finish. 
"The  end  finally  came  (it  usually  comes  previously 
in  the  muddled  noddles  of  platitudinarian  homilists 
in  their  seventhlies)  when  Poe,  after  a  prolonged 
debauch ....  fell  seriously  ill  and  died." 

One  of  the  imperative  duties  of  the  owners  of 
this  India  paper  edition  is  to  either  cancel  this 
word  "debauch,"  or  so  strictly  define  it  that  the 
reader  shall  be  in  no  doubt  as  to  where  the  insinua 
tion  leads  and  ends.  What  "Imp  of  the  Perverse" 
seduces  publishers  into  the  wild  absurdity  of  set 
ting  radically  prejudiced  writers  to  hash  up  famous 
men,  whose  genius  they  are  incapable  of  appre 
ciating,  and  with  whose  characters  and  struggles 
they  have  no  more  sympathy  than  has  a  cat  for 
its  mouse? 

The  next  duty  of  the  editors  is  to  join  brain- 
forces  quickly  and  labour  until  they  learn  the  first 
of  the  A,  B,  C,  facts  in  Poe's  history,  which  is 
that  his  second  name  is  spelt  Allan  and  not  Allen. 
Twenty  years'  familiarity  with  the  matter  war 
rants  the  information,  now  made  public,  that 


Expert 
ignorance 
of  Poe's 
name. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


Beatifica 
tion   ex 
cathedra. 


three  times  in  five  Poe's  name  is  misspelt  in  the 
public  prints.  This  grand  simplicity  attains  its 
climax  in  the  pretty  frontispiece  picture  in  volume 
ii  of  this  costly  edition,  which  shows  "the  Allen 
house  at  Richmond,  in  which  "both  ( !)  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Allen  died."  Efficient  correctors  of  the 
press  come  high,  it  therefore  behooves  discreet 
issuers  of  exteriorly  immaculate  little  volumes  to 
sit  up  at  nights  rather  than  trust  to  the  editorial 
talent  of  hard-worked  printers.  It  is  bare  justice 
to  announce  that  the  names  Edgar,  and  Poe,  are 
correctly  spelt,  and  two  out  of  three  right  is  an 
excellent  record  as  times  go.  It  has  taken  the 
English  nation  more  than  three  hundred  years 
to  spell  Shakespeare  properly,  and  they  are  not 
sure  of  it  yet.  Marshal  Frey,  for  thirty-five  years 
head  of  the  Baltimore  police,  published  his 
"Reminiscences"  in  1892,  from  which  I  learnt  that 
Poe  died  in  Washington!  In  this  book,  too,  the 
name  is  ten  times  twisted  into  Allen.  The  page 
facsimiles  of  Poe's  handwriting  are  greatly 
reduced,  it  would  be  well  if  so  stated,  lest  it  should 
mislead  the  young. 

The  American  Catholic  Quarterly  Review  of 
October,  1891,  is  treasured  for  its  brilliant  sixteen 
page  eulogium  of  Poe,  by  W.  O'Leary  Curtis.  A 
poetical  heretic  fly  in  amber  so  rich  and  old  is  no 
ordinary  discovery,  even  if  the  Review  did  not 
awe  us  by  its  intimation  that  "it  employs  the  high 
est  order  of  literary  talent  available  in  this 


CENSORS  AND   CHAMPIONS. 


57 


country.'7  A  Quarterly  is  infallible  by  prescriptive 
right,  and  the  literary  genius  of  the  present  gen 
eration  is  so  by  right  divine.  Yet,  overtopping  all 
else,  this  particular  number  proudly  exhibits,  in 
Latin  and  English,  the  special  Apostolic  Benedic 
tion  mailed  to  its  staff  by  His  Holiness  the  late 
Leo  XIII,  of  noble  memory  and  universal  venera 
tion. 

We  are  taught  some  new  news  about  Poe. 
First  of  all,  "the  poet  was  certainly  of  Irish 
descent."  A  good  few  steps,  though,  from  his 
Norman  ancestor  who  settled  in  Ireland  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  II,  about  the  year  1170.  It  will 
cheer  the  dulled  spirit  of  the  publishers  of  that 
nice  little  India  paper  edition  to  read,  in  this 
inspired  scripture,  that  "things  now  look  bad  for 
Poe;  Mrs.  Allan  was  dead,  Mr.  Allen  had  married 
again."  Here  is  a  glorious  lesson  in  the  higher 
punctuation.  "Can  we  wonder  that  a  scene 
ensued?  That  the  poet  left  the  house  in  a  rage? 
That  Mrs.  Allan  complained  to  her  husband  of 
Poe's  insolence?  with  the  result  that  he  was  for 
bidden  the  house."  A  startling  example  of  the 
wit-muddling  effect  of  even  a  suspicion  of  alcohol 
in  one's  ink  is  worthy  the  attention  of  reformers; 
"He  could  not  shake  off  the  thraldom  of  the  Drink 
Fiend.  .  .  .The  proprietor  (of  a  certain  magazine) 
regretted  him,  for  on  starting  a  new  one  he  offered 
him  its  editorship,  which  he  (not  him)  accepted." 

It  is  comforting  to  read  that  Willis,  Poe's  friend 
and  champion,  was  "a  distinguished  poet,"  while 


His 
"high 
born 
kinsmen." 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE. 


The 
"Leo- 
nainie" 
phantasm. 


"Mr.  Stoddard"  is  only  a  person  who  "remarks." 
A  certain  favorite  poet,  neither  a  Poe  nor  a  Willis, 
but  who  is  entitled  to  rank  as  Laureate  of  the 
People,  ought  to  be  grateful  for  the  rare  honour 
and  luck  of  so  priceless  an  A.  C.  Q.  R.  introduction 
to  St.  Peter  of  the  Gate,  who,  I  fear,  has  by  this 
time  been  soured  against  supplicants  for  free 
admission  on  the  claim  that  they  go  Poe  one  better 
all  round  on  the  jingling  lay. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  manufactured  a  set  of 
verses  in  the  Poe  vein  twenty  years  ago  which  he 
called  "Leonainie'?  and  published  in  the  equally 
euphoniously-named  townlet,  Kokomo.  This 
anonymous  piece  was  credited  to  Poe,  despite 
its  heroine's  "eyes  of  bloomy  moonshine."  As 
recently  as  April,  1904,  so  eminent  a  man, — 
scientist,  not  poet — as  the  venerable  Alfred  Russel 
Wallace  published  this  piece  in  the  Fortnightly 
Review  in  London  as  a  brand  new  discovery  in 
Poe  lore.  "It  was  a  mistake  due  to  the  folly  of 
my  youth  that  I  ever  wrote  that  poem,"  said  Riley 
at  the  time,  "and  God  knows  I  have  suffered  for 
it.  There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  acknowl 
edge  that  I  wrote  it,  as  I  do,  but  that  does  not 
stand,  as  I  once  denied  being  the  author.  I  wrote 
it,  but  I  did  not.  I  did  not  write  it,  but  I  did, 
and  am  a  liar  any  way  you  put  it." 

Now  here  I  bring  solace  for  both  Wallace  and 
Riley,  absolution  for  Riley,  encouragement  for 
Wallace.  Can  there  be  higher  human  authority 
for  Wallace's  attribution  of  "Leonainie,"  to  Poe, 


CENSORS  AND   CHAMPIONS. 


59 


and  for  relieving  Riley  of  his  mystification,  than 
the  Pronunciamento  of  the  A.  C.  Q.  R.?  It  runs 
thus,  in  much  confusion  of  quotation  marks: 
"This  beautiful  poem  (quoted  in  full)  is  not  to  be 
found  in  any  of  the  editions  of  Poe's  works;  and 
our  opinion  is  that  no  edition  should  claim  com 
pleteness  without  it.  His  poems  are  too  few  to 
allow  the  loss  even  of  the  most  inconsiderable  or 
least  valuable;  and  certainly  the  above  poem  does 
not  enter  into  that  category ;  it  has  all  the  charac 
teristics  of  Poe  at  his  very  best  and  we  do  not 
believe  any  other  American  poet  could  have 
written  it." 

Although  the  A.  C.  Q.  R.  eulogist  says,  "it  is 
very  difficult  to  write  anything  new  about  the 
poetry  of  Poe,"  his  genius  makes  light  of  the  task. 
The  widowed  poet  "wrote  a  requiem  for  his  dead 
wife,"  a  daring  breach  of  the  custom  which  con 
fines  requiems  to  the  living,  but  in  happy  accord 
with  newspaper  etiquette  or  eloquence,  which 
always  draws  our  tears  by  telling  how  "the  Dead 
Merchant's  Body"  is  being  brought  home  on  the 
train,  and  the  "Funeral  of  the  Dead  Millionaire" 
was  mourned  by  the  family  of  the  thrice  Dead 
Pa-rent.  A  few  other  new  things  about  Poe  are 
the  splitting  of  one  of  his  poems  into  "Malume" 
and  "Ulalume;"  the  making  Siamese  twins  of  two 
others,  "For  Annie  and  Lenore,"  and  the  beauti 
fying  of  his  "Ligeia"  into  "Lisica." 

If  this  Q-R.  Poe  curio  is  ever  separately  printed 


Posthu 
mous  Poe 
"at  his 
very  best." 


6o 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Edmund 
Clarence 
Stedman. 


it  might  help  it  along  if  entitled,  "Paddy  Poe;  a 
judy-spree." 

[The  sub-title  is  in  the  French  language.] 


Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  on  Edgar  Allan 
Poe;  "Poets  of  America."  1885. 

In  welcome  contrast  to  the  above  citations  from 
mediocre,  figures  ill-affected  towards  their  subject, 
stand  two  clear  and  noble  utterances  by  men  of 
insight  and  literary  authority,  Mr.  Stedman  first, 
and,  later  in  time,  Mr.  Mabie.  Occasion  will  ere 
long  be  taken,  as  intimated  elsewhere,  to  try  and 
pay  in  full  the  dues  countless  of  Poe  champions, 
here  and  across  the  water,  to  these  distinguished 
representatives  of  American  letters  for  their 
courageous,  magnanimous,  sympathetic,  and  influ 
ential  vindications  of  a  man  too  gifted  and  too 
delicately  moulded  to  be  understood  by  Demos, 
his  flatterers  and  his  servitors.  I  take  a  few  words 
here  and  there  from  these  fine  discourses,  as  one 
sprinkles  fragrant  perfume  over  a  mildewed  carpet, 
that  they  may  clear  the  fetid  atmosphere  which 
hangs  over  the  ghoulish  literature  about  Poe  it 
has  been  our  duty  to  examine.  The  too  brief 
extracts  are  given  without  note  or  comment : 

"Poe  was  unique  among  his  fellows — so  dif 
ferent  from  any  other  writer  that  America  has 
produced  as  really  to  stand  alone.  He  must  have 
had  genius  to  furnish  even  the  basis  for  an  ideal 
which  excites  this  persistent  interest.  Yes,  we  are 


CENSORS  AND   CHAMPIONS. 


61 


on  firm  ground  with  relation  to  his  genuineness  as 
a  poet." 

"We  begin  to  understand  his  spasmodic,  versa 
tile  industry,  his  balks  and  breaks,  his  frequent 
poverty,  despondency,  self-abandonment,  and 
almost  to  wonder  that  the  sensitive  feminine  spirit 
— worshipping  beauty  and  abhorrent  of  ugliness 
and  pain;  combatting  with  pride,  with  inherited 
disease  of  appetite — did  not  sooner  yield,  was  not 
utterly  overcome  almost  at  the  outset  of  these 
experiences." 

"It  is  sad  that  disaster  followed  him  even  after 
death,  in  the  vicious  memoir  which  Griswold  pre 
fixed  to  his  collected  works.  Poe  should  have  had 
for  his  biographer  a  man  of  kind  and  healthy 
discernment." 

"Poe  was  not  a  man  of  immoral  habits. .  .  .He 
was  not  a  libertine.  Study  and  a  love  of  the  ideal 
protect  men  of  his  class  against  the  sensuality  by 
which  many  dull  the  zest  of  their  appetites.... 
He  was  not  an  habitual  drunkard,  for  a  single  glass 
made  him  the  easy  prey  of  any  coarse  and  pitiless 
hands  into  which  he  might  fall.  He  was  a  man 
inebriate  when  sober,  his  brain  surging  with 
emotion,  and  a  stimulant  that  only  served  to  steady 
common  men  bewildered  him." 

"It  is  just  that  well-balanced  persons  should 
rebuke  the  failings  of  genius.  But  let  such  an 
one  imagine  himself  with  a  painfully  sensitive 

organization — 'all  touch,  all  eye,  all  ear' — with 

a  frame  in  which  health  and  success  breed  a  dan- 


M  aligners 
put  to 
shame. 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


Hamilton 
Wright 

Mabic. 


gerous  rapture,  disease  and  sorrow  a  fatal  despair. 
Surmount  all  this  with  a  powerful  intelligence  that 
does  not  so  much  rule  the  structure  as  it  menaces 
it  and  threatens  to  shake  it  asunder. ..  .He  too 
might  find  his  judgment  a  broken  reed ....  I  have 
said  to  friends  as  they  sneered  at  the  ill-managed 
life  of  one  whose  special  genius  perhaps  could  not 
exist  but  in  union  with  certain  infirmities,  that 
instead  of  recounting  these,  and  deriding  them, 
they  should  hedge  him  round  with  their  protec 
tion.  We  can  find  more  than  one  man  of  sense 
in  a  thousand,  but  how  rarely  a  poet  with  such 
a  gift!"  

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie,  on  "Poe's  Place  in 
American  Literature"  1903. 

At  the  unveiling  of  the  idealized  bust  of  Poe  in 
the  University  of  Virginia  Mr.  Mabie  delivered 
the  address  which  deservedly  occupies  the  place 
of  honour  in  Prof.  Harrison's  Virginia  edition  of 
Poe's  works.  It  is  a  dispassionate  presentation  of 
the  state  of  American  literature  before  Poe 
appeared.  Other  poets  had  their  precursors,  he 
had  none.  Criticism  worthy  of  the  name  was 
unknown  until  he  revealed  its  spirit  and  purpose. 

"Poe  is  inexplicable.  He  remains  the  most 
sharply  defined  personality  in  our  literary  history. 
His  verse  and  imaginative  prose  stand  out  in  bold 
relief  against  a  background  which  neither  suggests 
nor  interprets  them.  One  may  go  further,  and 


CENSORS  AND   CHAMPIONS. 


affirm  that  both  verse  and  prose  have  a  place  by 
themselves  in  the  literature  of  the  world." 

"He  is  distinctively  and  in  a  unique  sense  the 
artist  in  our  literature,  the  man  to  whom  beauty 
was  a  constant  and  sufficient  justification  of  itself." 

"He  was  far  in  advance  of  the  civilization  in 
which  he  lived,  in  his  discernment  of  the  value  of 
beauty  to  men  struggling  for  their  lives  in  a  world 
full  of  ugliness  because  full  of  all  manner  of  imper 
fection.  .  .  .In  older  countries,  looking  at  our  life 
outside  the  circle  of  its  immediate  needs  and  tasks, 
he  has  found  a  recognition  often  denied  him 
among  his  own  people ....  The  judgment  of  Eng 
lish,  French,  and  German  critics  has  been,  as  a 
whole,  unanimous  in  accepting  Poe  at  a  much 
higher  valuation  than  has  been  placed  upon  him 
at  home,  where  Lowell's  touch-and-go  reference 
in  the  'Fable  for  Critics'  has  too  often  been 
accepted  as  an  authoritative  and  final  opinion  from 
the  highest  literary  tribunal." 

"In  the  disconnected  product  of  his  broken  life 
there  is  not  a  line  to  be  blotted  out  on  the  score 
of  vulgarity,  lack  of  reticence,  or  even  common- 
placeness.  In  his  most  careless  imaginative  writ 
ing  the  high  quality  of  his  mind  is  always  apparent. 
....  In  his  worst  estate  the  great  traditions  of  art 
were  safe  in  his  hands." 


Fee's 
poetical 
suprem 
acy. 


IV 

POE'S 
"PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION' 

and  how  it  was  used  to  grind 
THE  ORGAN. 

If  it  is  possible  that  there  still  exist  any  inno 
cents  past  puberty  who  have  never  sinned  in  the 
direction  of  verse  making,  they  are  pretty  sure 
to  succumb  when  they  encounter  the  temptation 
of  this  wicked  essay.  Our  wide-awake  generation 
rather  prides  itself  on  thinking  it  has  robbed  the 
glorious  soaring  scriptures  of  pious  antiquity  of 
their  lofty  inspiration,  heedless  of  its  worse  stu 
pidity  in  whittling  it  into  picayune  aureolas  for 
every  rhymester  of  the  hour.  There  is  at  least 
dignity  in  the  olden  faith.  Faith  in  the  inspiration 
of  modern  poetry  is  a  charming  nursery  delusion. 
Grant  that  the  very  noblest  modern  thoughts, 
impressively  phrased,  bear  some  traces  of  being 
touched  by  an  angel's  wing,  be  assured  that  the 
wafter  "flourished"  in  far  away  ages,  for  there  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun,  and  even  our  finest 
poetic  moonshine  is  a  second-hand  light. 

That  Poe's  essay  is  wicked,  as  inspiring  artless 
youth  with  the  art-craft  of  verse  and  worse,  is 


THE  WIDOWER  YEAR   PORTRAIT,   page   15. 

It  fell 
Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  Hell. 

— "Tamerlane.' 


THE  MAKER  OF  "THE  RAVEN." 


obvious  to  the  philosophic  mind.  And  how  cruel ! 
When  we  scan  the  portraits  of  our  poets,  posing 
and  imposing  in  lovely  studio  designs,  the  great 
Smith,  with  bulbous  head  leaning  on  the  prop  of 
that  inspired  right  hand;  the  afflatussed  Jones, 
with  eyes  in  fine  frenzy  glaring;  and  the  pro  tern. 
immortal  Miffkins,  bowed  with  cogibundity  of 
cogitation  as  a  shirtless  bust  after  the  antique,  we 
gaze  in  blithering  awe  at  their  inspired  expression, 
caught  by  happy  snapshots  at  the  psychological 
moment.  Then  comes  Poe,  unearthliest  of  his 
tribe,  and  gives  away,  gratis,  the  secret  tricks  of 
their  artful  workshops. 

Our  verse-founders  and  tinkers  will  never  con 
fess  their  debts  to  Poe  for  ideas,  for  designs,  for 
word-forms,  melody,  witchery,  etc.  For  that 
matter  he  was  no  more  scrupulous  than  they  are  in 
picking  up  trifles  from  owners,  less  expert  than 
himself  in  knowing  their  value,  than  were  Shake 
speare  and  Tennyson,  "Longfellow,  and  other 
plagiarists,"  as  he  calls  them. 

We  their  readers,  adorers,  and  customers,  are 
vastly  indebted  to  Poe  for  lifting  the  lid  of  the 
sacred  inkpot,  and  disclosing  the  business  recipes 
by  which  prose  bread  is  converted  into  Poesie  pie 
or  Angel  cake. 

In  this  most  unique  of  essays  Poe  tells  the 
apprentice  how  to  make  new  poetry  out  of  stale 
ideas,  "keeping  originality  always  in  view,"  says 
he.  To  show  how  he  did  it  himself  he  selects 
"The  'Raven/  as  most  generally  known,"  which 


Every 
man  his 
own 
Poe. 


66 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 


What's 
in  a 
Word? 


he  transfigured  into  a  Bird  of  Paradise.  He 
smiles  away  the  attribute  of  spasmodic  inspiration. 

First,  he  decided  that  a  perfect  poem  must  not 
much  exceed  a  hundred  lines.  Beauty  being  the 
finest  theme  or  impression  to  be  conveyed,  he 
sought  for  its  highest  manifestation  and  found  it 
in  sadness.  Next  he  reasoned  that  for  a  striking 
artistic  effect  there  should  be  a  refrain,  its  force 
being  enhanced  if  it  can  be  a  single  word.  Every 
thing  depends  on  this  word's  sound,  and  the  nature 
of  it  must  correspond.  The  word  "Nevermore" 
met  these  conditions. 

Who  shall  reiterate  this  melancholy  musical 
word?  If  some  non-reasoning  creature  capable 
of  speech  could  utter  it,  the  effect  would  be  doubly 
weird.  Poe  had  reviewed  the  current  monthly 
parts  of  Dickens's  "Barnaby  Rudge"  three  or  four 
years  earlier,  and  had  exhibited  his  marvellous 
power  of  insight  by  foretelling  in  reasoned  detail 
what  the  then  unwritten  continuation  and  ending 
of  the  plot  must  be.  Dickens  said  on  reading  this 
analysis  that  the  writer  must  either  be  Poe  or  the 
devil.  From  this  book  Poe  borrowed  the  Raven, 
of  which'tie  had  said  in  his  review  that,  "amusing 
as  it  is,  it  might  have  been  made,  more  than  we 
now  see  it,  a  portion  of  the  conception  of  the 
fantastic  Barnaby.  Its  croaking  might  have  been 
prophetically  heard  in  the  course  of  the  drama. 
Its  character  might  have  performed ....  much  the 
same  part  as  does,  in  music,  the  accompaniment 
in  respect  to  the  air." 


THE  MAKER  OF  "THE  RAVEN." 


Having  now  worked  it  out  that  this  weird  chant 
of  sadness  should  point  a  story  of  exquisite  grief, 
he  naturally  employed  a  lover,  bewailing  the  death 
of  his  sweetheart,  as  the  central  figure.  With  his 
unerring  artistic  instinct  Poe  gave  a  background 
of  splendor  to  this  scene  of  woe,  and  the  piquant 
touch  of  incongruous  absurdity  and  humor  by 
making  the  uncanny  bird  enter  by  the  window  and 
behave  like  a  compound  of  owl  and  parrot.  "It 
is  not  until  the  very  last  line  of  the  very  last  stanza, 
that  the  intention  of  making  the  Raven  emble 
matical  of  Mournful  and  Never-ending  Remem 
brance  is  permitted  to  be  seen."  Here  ends  the 
true  history  of  a  great  poem,  yet  many,  very  many, 
perhaps  a  majority  of  the  writers  about  Poe  and 
his  "Raven"  in  my  earlier  reading  years  believed, 
or  affected  to  believe,  that  this  essay  was  no  more 
than  a  grave  hoax.  Possibly  there  are  persons 
interested  in  poetry  as  a  business  who  still  strive 
to  ridicule  it  as  a  jest.  In  the  course  of  a  lively 
discussion  many  years  ago,  in  which  I  contended 
that  a  perfect  epigram  or  short  poem  must  be 
written  backwards,  from  climax  to  title,  I  made 
notes  for  a  someday  experiment  on  these  lines. 
Two  decades  have  passed  since  the  following  piece 
of  verse  was — manufactured — as  the  result,  which 
is  now  printed  for  the  first  time.  Without  the 
slightest  pretence  to  be  more  than  the  mechanical 
product  it  is,  put  here  just  for  what  it  may  be 
worth,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  allowed  the  humble 


Weaker 

poets 

never 

tell 

how. 


68 


EDGAR   ALLAN   FOE. 


merit  of  illustrating  two  whimsical  notions — which 
may  be  erroneous: 

1.  That  it  is  the  first  avowed  attempt  to  fashion 
a  piece  on  the  theory  and  model  (in  a  general  way) 
set  up  by  Poe,  solely  as  an  experiment ; 

2.  That,   within   the   writer's   recollection,   no 
poet    except    Adelaide    Procter,    in    "The    Lost 
Chord,"  seems  to  have  tackled  this  most  alluring 
subject,  the  Organ. 


THE  ORGAN 

A 
FANTASIE 

in  the  manner  of  Poe's  "Raven" 

suggested  by  his  avowal 

of  method. 

I. 

Lonely  in  the  sordid  city, 

where  they  know  no  rest  nor  pity, 
Where  they  spare  no  time  for  pity 

o'er  the  loss  of  aught  but  Gold; 
Wintry  mist  and  sleet  were  falling, 

all  my  bitter  woes  recalling. 
Hideous  gloom  my  soul  appalling — 

griefs  that  never  can  be  told ; 
There  and  thus  I  paced,  scarce  knowing 

whitherward  my  steps  were  going, 
Chill  blasts  through  my  heart-core  blowing, 

till  its  throb  beat  faint  and  cold. 

II. 

From  the  stroke  of  Fate  still  reeling, 

pain  of  loss  still  fiercely  feeling, 
Pangs  I  bore  past  human  healing 

that  no  anodyne  can  quell ; 
Death  my  life-long  Love  had  taken, 

nevermore  from  sleep  to  waken, 
Till  my  vacant  heart  forsaken 

is  but  Hope's  sepulchral  cell, 
For  the  shadow  friends  that  flattered 

fond  youth-dreams  are  faded,  scattered, 
And — a  soul's  ambition  shattered — 

Life  is  death  and  earth  is  hell! 


THE   ORGAN. 


III. 

Dazed  with  dread,  as  one  demented, 

through  the  streets  by  throngs  frequented, 
On  I  sped,  by  none  prevented 

for  I  knew  not  they  were  there ; 
Naught  recked  I  of  mien  or  bearing, 

for  no  flippant  mocker  caring, 
Sorrow's  mask  my  face  was  wearing, 

dial  of  profound  despair, — 
Suddenly,  my  gaze  surprising, 

down  a  nook  the  mist  disguising, 
Lo — a  sombre  Abbey,  rising 

grandly  from  its  grassy  square. 


IV. 

Glamoured  by  the  view  before  me, 

came  a  holy  impulse  o'er  me, 
As  an  angel  might  implore  me 

straightway  in  the  shrine  to  go. 
Haven-like  the  Abbey  seeming, 

with  its  gorgeous  windows  gleaming, 
Rainbow  rays  of  glory  streaming 

through  the  mist  upon  the  snow, 
Shadows  with  the  radiance  blending, 

to  the  fane  a  weirdness  lending, 
Through  my  soul  a  rapture  sending — 

rapture  only  martyrs  know. 


THE   ORGAN. 


V. 

Slow  I  paced  within  the  portal, 

o'er  the  bones  of  many  a  mortal, 
Yearners  for  the  Fame  Immortal 

through  the  aid  of  famous  tomb; 
Marbled  ghosts  of  worthies  saintly 

shadowed  'neath  the  archways  quaintly, 
As  the  distant  tapers  faintly 

glimmered  through  the  deepening  gloom, 
And  my  footfalls  in  the  vaulted 

transept  echoed,  so  I  halted 
'Mong  the  lowly  and  exalted, 

mingled  there  to  bide  their  doom. 


VI. 

On  my  knees  devoutly  sinking, 

whelmed  with  awe,  my  spirit  shrinking, 
Lone  and  strange,  I  fell  a-thinking, 

thinking  o'er  the  drift  of  creeds ; 
Strange,  this  monumental  glory, 

graced  with  epitaphic  story, 
Beams  on  those  whose  hands  were  gory, 

warriors  boasting  ruthless  deeds ! 
Strange  that  Churches  carve  no  niches 

for  God's  saints  unblest  with  riches, 
Who  through  city  dens  and  ditches 

carry  cheer  where  Lazarus  bleeds. 


THE    ORGAN. 


VII. 

Ah,  for  victors,  not  the  failing, 

for  the  strong  and  not  the  ailing, 
For  the  joyous,  not  the  wailing, 

are  the  cenotaph  and  shrine. 
Victim  I  of  heart's  privation, 

weary  in  my  desolation, 
Fate  I  face  with  resignation, 

dark  oblivion  be  mine! 
Prostrate  'mid  the  vanquished  lying, 

dead,  dear  Love,  sweet  Hope  a-dying, 
Grief  my  soul  is  crucifying — 

O  for  endless  Rest  divine! 


VIII. 

Thus  in  bitterest  agony  quaking, 

and  my  sob  the  silence  breaking, 
I  my  course  was  vaguely  taking 

thence  my  footsteps  to  retrace, — 
From  a  ghastly  tombstone  fluttered 

forth  a  ghoulish  Thing  that  muttered, 
Though  I  caught  not  what  it  uttered 

as  its  flapping  froze  my  face — 
"Back !  thou  Vampire !  hellish  minion ! 

off  me  take  thy  cursed  pinion! 
Loose  me  from  thy  dread  dominion! 

Spare  me  in  this  holy  place!" 


THE   ORGAN. 


73 


IX. 

And  I  fell  in  swoon  thus  shrieking, 
horrored  sweat  my  forehead  reeking, 

Madly  sanctuary  seeking 
from  the  Demon  of  Despair! 

****** 

Lo,  what  strange  supernal  yearning! 

tortured  brain  to  peace  returning, 
Secrets  of  the  grave  discerning 

as  I  lay  entranced  there, 
Dimly  hearing  songs  of  sorrow 

heart  of  grace  from  daybreak  borrow, 
Till  the  paeans  of  the  morrow 

woke  to  joy  the  midnight  air. 


X. 

Like  to  vague  melodious  noises 

wafted  from  far-distant  voices — 
Spell  that  quails  us  or  rejoices 

as  we  rede  its  omen  plain — 
Now  there  hurtled  round  me  mystic 

shouts  and  cries  antagonistic, 
All  their  meanings  cabalistic 

frenzying  my  fevered  brain, 
Prelude  of  the  human  choir, 

strugglers  panting  as  they  tire, 
Madly  gasping  "Higher!  Higher!" — 

wild  Ambition's  discord  strain. 


74 


THE    ORGAN. 


XL 

Soon  the  hubbub  hum  subsided, 

sweetly  to  an  anthem  glided, 
Joining  voices  long  divided 

by  the  severing  service-bell. 
Chords  majestic  grandly  pealing 

thrilled  my  soul  with  fervid  feeling, 
And  in  heart  communion  kneeling 

holy  transports  o'er  them  fell, 
As  the  teeming  nations,  bent  all 

in  devotion  sacramental, 
In  one  glorious  worship  blent — 

"All  people  that  on  earth  do  dwell." 


XII. 

Hark!  the  noble  Psalm's  stupendous 

unison  breaks  in  tremendous 
Booming  salvo  sounds  that  rend  us 

with  a  fearsome  thrill  of  dread ; 
Roar  and  crash  of  mighty  thunders 

heralding  the  dawn  of  wonders, 
When  the  Veil  of  mystery  sunders 

and  the  flaming  sky  glows  red — 
"Dies  tree" — direful  warning! 

woe  to  those  its  terrors  scorning! 
Father!  mercy  that  Last  Morning 

when  Thou  judgest  quick  and  dead! 


THE    ORGAN. 


75 


XIII. 

Through  the  long  reverberation, 

warning  death-knell   of  creation, 
When  in  woe  of  desolation 

earth  and  firmament  shall  parch, 
Glad  I  heard  a  chaunt  inspiring, 

with  a  chivalrous  desiring, 
Buoyant  hearts'  high  ardour  firing 

Youth  for  life's  laborious  march ; 
"Onward  Christian  Soldiers!"  chorus, 

Duty's  clarion  call  sonorous, 
Heaven's  bright  rainbow  banner  o'er  us, 

Hope  the  keystone  of  the  arch. 


XIV. 

Melting  strains,  of  Peace  the  token, 

dulcet  harmonies  unbroken, 
Sighs  of  yearning  love  unspoken 

like  the  sighings  of  the  sea; 
Soft  ^Eolian  zephyrs  waving 

fill  my  soul  with  love  enslaving, 
Rapturous,  transcendent  craving, 

languishing  in  ecstacy — 
O  thou  loved  and  lost  One!  treasure 

loved  and  longed  for  past  all  measure, 
More  than  worlds  of  gain  and  pleasure, 

more  than  life  thy  Love  to  me! 


THE    ORGAN. 


XV. 

Lo,  from  out  the  seraph-singing, 

high  aloft  its  lost  way  winging, 
Trilled  a  wondering  linnet,  ringing 

loud  its  luring  roundelay. 
Harbinger  of  heaven — I  hear  thee! 

echo- voice  of  love,  I  hear  thee! 
O  my  lost  One!  to  be  near  thee 

now  I  passionately  pray! 
Bid  these  beckoning  wings  to  carry 

through  yon  azure  ether  starry 
Me  to  Thee!  why  do  I  tarry — 

why  thus  lonely  lingering  stay? 


XVI. 

But  afar  the  winged  voice  floated 

to  the  darkness,  where  the  bloated 
Ghoulish  gargoyles  grinned  and  gloated 

o'er  my  woe  in  fiendish  glee, 
And  there  came  a  sad  intoning, 

a  forlorn  despondent  groaning, 
Like  to  dying  souls  bemoaning 

taunts  of  gnawing  memory, 
And  the  "Stabat  Mater's"  rending 

tones,  all  mortal  grief  transcending, 
Wailed  the  mourning  Mother,  bending 

prone  at  mystic  Calvary. 


THE   ORGAN. 


77 


XVII. 

What  is  life?  a  melody,  joyous 

while  its  hopeful  harmonies  buoy  us, 
Until  discords  dire  destroy  us 

and  the  echoes  die  in  pain, 
Save  the  "still  small  voice"  imparted 

to  console  the  breaking-hearted, 
Whispering,  '  'Blest  are  the  departed," 

for  the  Rest  divine  they  gain. 
Happy  resting  after  roaming! 

happier  calm  when  waves  cease  foaming, 
Sweet  the  wearied  warrior's  homing, 

Peace  eternal  after  pain ! 


XVIII. 

Hark !  the  piercing  call  to  battle, 

to  brave  duty  in  life's  battle, 
Where  the  wounding  weapons  rattle 

where  the  fighters  furious  rave. 
Ah!   ere  the   victor's   sword   is   sheathed, 

ere  his  brow  is  laurel  wreathed, 
The  hero's  dying  sigh  is  breathed— 
^  conquests  cannot  heroes  save, 
Sound  your  paeans!  flaunt  your  trophies! 

What  in  death  avail  your  trophies  ? 
What  your  proud  triumphal  strophes 

but  Grand  Marches  to  the  grave? 


THE    ORGAN. 


XIX. 

Hush !  'tis  muted  music,  guiding 

yon  long  phantom-phalanx,  gliding 
Through  the  gloom,  their  faces  hiding 

'neath  grim  Retribution's  pall ; 
Grinning  wraiths  of  Faiths  long  slighted, 

Loves  long  lost,  loves  unrequited, 
Youthtide  Hopes  forever  blighted — 

see  them  to  their  limbo  crawl ! 
Chaunting  ghastly  charnel  dirges 

as  Remorse  their  conscience  scourges, 
Loathing  death  that  never  merges 

in  Nirvana's  holy  thrall. 


XX. 

Now  from  out  the  darkness  lowering 

bursts  a  mighty,  overpowering 
"ALLELUIA!"  heavenward  towering, 
leaping  like  the  storm-lashed  sea! 
And  a  glow  of  golden  glory, 

a  resplendent  godlike  glory, 
Bathed  in  bliss  the  Abbey  hoary 

with  a  dazzling  brilliancy — 
\nd  I  woke! 

and  lo,  soft  gleaming, 
in  the  hallowed  glamour  b earning , 
Thrilled  a  lordly  ORGAN,  dreaming 
drowsy  incense-minstrelsy. 
*     *     * 

Its  minstrels  are  our  angel  loves 
who  waft  each  throbbing  chord; 

And  the  rolling  of  its  thunders 
the  Voice  of  God  the  Lord! 


HIS   MONUMENT 

Reprinted,    slightly    changed,    from    the    New    York 
Critic,  1888. 

In  New  York's  Central  Park  four  statues  stand, 
Four  Poets,  prized  in  (though  not  of)  our  land; 
First,  SHAKESPEARE,  bare  legs,  shaky  spear  in  shape, 
Chill  though  his  shanks  he  sports  a  needless  cape. 
Next,  stiff-necked  BURNS,  with  milksop  face,  sits  squat, 
And,  squeamish,  squirms  in  fear  of  scowling  SCOTT. 
Elsewhere,  to  soothe  Hibernian  beholders, 
Tom    MOORE'S    squeezed    in    by    just    his    head   and 
shoulders. 

These  honours  done  to  bards  born  t'other  side, 
Two  sops  are  flung  to  patriotic  pride — 
Fitz  HALLECK  fidgets  in  his  painful  seat; 
WASHINGTON  IRVING'S  busted  counterfeit 
Stands — where  the  parrots  and  the  monkeys  meet! 

Where  stands  the  monument  that  tells 
Of  our  chief  chimer  of  immortal  "BELLS"  ? 
Fate-stricken  soul!  lover  of  Annabel  Lee, 
Has  cold  New  York  no  sculptured  pile  for  thee? 
To  foreigners  are  her  best  favours  shown — 
Her  STARS  for  them,  her  STRIPES  for  thee  alone? 
Give  native  genius,  living,  stones  for  bread, 
And  grudge  its  deathless  fame  one  stone  when  dead! 

O  Genius  rare!     O  poet  without  peer 
Among  the  native  throng,  thy  craft-kin  rear 
Their  ill-wrought  columns  to  their  MASTER'S  name ; 
No  Crown  they  bring,  no  place  for  thee  they  claim 
In  Gotham's  Barnum-Jumbo  "HALL  OF  FAME:" 
Thrice  blest  at  last !  avenged  on  every  foe, 
The  MARTYR  views  the  Pigmies'  bust  of  POE! 


JV 


«an'56PWQ 

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